


Built For Sin

by CharlieTheUnicorn



Series: The Evil That Men Do [2]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Family Bonding, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma, Mental Health Issues, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Torture, Tseng has a made up backstory, Veld and Tseng are partners but not like that, Veld and Vin are gay together but not in a sexually explicit way, Veld swears a lot okay, Young Sephiroth (Compilation of FFVII), at least not here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:42:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 58,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25270033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharlieTheUnicorn/pseuds/CharlieTheUnicorn
Summary: After sleeping for thirteen years, Vincent Valentine is woken unexpectedly by his partner, Veld. With Veld's help, Vincent decides to search for Lucrecia's son instead of returning to his slumber. Can they save the teenager from Hojo's clutches? Or is it already too late?
Relationships: Vincent Valentine/Veld
Series: The Evil That Men Do [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915894
Comments: 67
Kudos: 123





	1. Prelude in D Minor

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct sequel to my other fic, "Only if for a Night," but can probably be read as a stand-alone with minimal confusion. I have no intention of this being smut, but Vincent and Veld are together in this. I have an extremely loose outline, but I'm still not sure exactly where this will end up going tone-wise, so ratings/warnings are likely to change. 
> 
> First chapter is a short prelude set eight years before the main story.

Hojo was fuming when he finally left the boardroom. Who did they think they were, the corporate clods, to decide what was to be done with his work? They were _businessmen_ , not scientists; they cared about power and profit, not discovery. None of them understood the importance of knowledge for knowledge’s sake.

He recalled Heidegger’s words at the meeting: _‘We have sank five years and millions of gil into this experiment, and we have nothing to show for it,’_ he’d accused. _We_ , Hojo had scoffed, as if anyone in at that table other than himself had any right to lay claim to his work. And “nothing to show for it”? _Nothing to show for it?!_ Was that what it was now, the thousands of pages worth of data backed up on his computer, “nothing”? How could anyone look at everything he had learned so far and say there was “nothing to show”?

He swept into the labs like a king returning to his fiefdom, and the clean scent of antiseptic and steady hum of the machinery helped calm him a little. His subjects snapped to attention as he passed, his nurses and assistants moving aside for him, giving him an occasional nod of deference.

“Good morning, Director,” the nurse outside the subject’s cell chimed as he approached, standing from her observation chair and greeting him with a smile. His frown deepened.

“How arrogant of you to assume that just because _your_ morning is going well mine must be also,” he snapped back, holding out an impatient hand for her clipboard. Eyes on her feet now, she passed it over, and he skimmed the data quickly.

_Nothing to show for it_ , he repeated again to himself, the incredulity of that statement only seeming to grow each time he revisited it.

_Resting heartrate, blood pressure, calorie intake, waste output, height, weight, ophthalmic readings, auditory data, EKG from when the subject was sleeping, detailed notes on his behavior when he was awake…_ and that was only what was _here_ , on this petty orderly’s clipboard.

_Nothing,_ he scoffed again.

They were simply incapable of understanding the wealth of knowledge to be gained from this boy, he acknowledged. He should have expected no more from other people—base, bestial things that they were.

“You are dismissed,” he informed the nurse, waving her away. He needed to be alone with the subject right now, to observe his crowning achievement in all of its glory in the peace of his labs for just a little longer. He settled into the observation chair in front of the large window of two-way glass that took up most of the wall, giving him an unobstructed view into the boy’s room.

_‘It’s an inappropriate place to raise a child,’_ Reeve had insisted, as if he somehow knew what the child needed better than said child’s own creator.

No one else could see what Hojo saw when he looked at Sephiroth. Reeve saw a child. President Shinra saw a dowsing rod for the Promised Land, or a waste of resources, depending on the angle from which he looked and his mood on any particular day. Scarlet and Heidegger saw a potential weapon.

Only Hojo could see him for what he was—the culmination of his life’s work, the realization of genetic perfection. A synchronous amalgam of human and Ancient, comingled flawlessly in a single vessel.

 _‘It’s not a fucking Cetra,’_ Heidegger’s words again. The words made him furious, even if he had already realized that they were true. They made him furious because they implied that the child was a failure, or that it was necessary to find some other use for him. It was true that Sephiroth would never lead Shinra to the Promised Land, but to take his masterpiece and reduce it to something as base as a weapon…

His fist clenched hard enough around the pencil in his hand to snap it, but he hardly registered it.

Inside the glass haven of his room, five-year-old Sephiroth sat cross-legged on the bed, immersed in a book. His silvery hair had begun to grow back in from the last shave, short, thick strands like mercury creeping over his scalp to cover the sparse smattering of thin scars marring the skin there. His blue eyes already held the tell-tale glow of mako.

 _‘He’ll make a good solider,’_ Scarlet had purred. _‘Your precious data shows_ that _, at least. If the company can manage to turn scruffy street rats into an organization as reliable and deadly as the Turks, imagine what we could do with something like him.’_

Greedy. Always needing more. It was just the way these people were. Scarlet had said it herself—they already had the Turks. Why did they need more? Why must they insist on taking his research from him? He’d barely even begun to scratch the surface of what the boy was capable of…

_‘He won’t make a good anything if he stays locked in a box for the rest of his adolescence.’_ Reeve again, and though the rest of the Board generally ignored the man’s opinion on anything other than engineering problems, they had, of course, chosen this of all days to listen to him _. ‘Even soldiers need socialization, people skills. It’s a child, not a missile. It doesn’t matter how great of a fighter he is if he can’t function around other humans.’_

“Other humans,” Hojo scoffed. As if the rest of their weak, fragile race had anything in common with Sephiroth’s perfection.

Boarding school. They were sending his precious research subject to a _boarding school_. The thought still made him sick. The President assured Hojo that he would still have access to the child, as if he thought limited interactions were anything close to a suitable replacement for having Sephiroth in the labs. It might as well have been a dismissal from his own project, and suddenly the people who had demanded Sephiroth be a Cetra were worried about his _humanity_. Ridiculous.

He stood from the chair, swiped his keycard to the boy’s room, entered without knocking. Sephiroth looked up at him with mako eyes.

“I didn’t think we were doing tests today,” the child said in a small, wary voice.

“You thought correctly,” Hojo stated.

A small amount of tension left Sephiroth’s shoulders at that. The boy didn’t like the testing—who would?—but he endured it for science, for Hojo. Hojo expected nothing else. After all, he was Sephiroth’s creator, his god, his reason for living. At least for one more month.

The boy continued to look at him, awaiting instruction. _The perfect soldier already, see!_ Hojo wanted to scream. The silence stretched, grew.

“Are you happy here, Sephiroth?” he asked after a long while in his cold, clinical tone, the same way he might have asked the child if he had completed his breakfast that morning, or passed waste. He said it in the same tone he used when he told the child to give him his arm so he could draw blood. He only had two tones, really, Sephiroth had learned: clinical or furious. The coldness of the former emotion was more than enough of a reminder to avoid the latter at all cost.

“Happy, Sir?” Sephiroth repeated, confused.

“It is a relatively simple question, one you should easily be able to answer,” Hojo said with a dash of impatience. “Are you happy here?”

Sephiroth lowered his eyes to the starched white linen of his bedspread. How was that supposed to be an easy question? he wondered. He knew what “happy” meant of course, but it was a _feeling_ wasn’t it? Had he ever felt it before? Did he feel it here? Was it even _possible_ to feel happy because of a place? He was taking too long to answer. He didn’t want to lie, but he didn’t want to make Hojo angry either, not by answering too slowly or answering incorrectly. So he took a breath, told Hojo what he thought he wanted to hear.

“Yes sir,” he tried. Hojo gave a satisfied nod and rose, leaving the room without another word. Sephiroth went back to his book. 


	2. What's it Feel Like to be a Ghost?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Vincent forced Veld to leave him behind in Nibelheim, Veld returns to Midgar and his partner, Tseng, who demands to know what is bothering him. Before Veld knows it, he finds himself entrusting Tseng with the knowledge that Vincent is still alive, that they are working together to find Lucrecia's child, and some other, more personal secrets too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of this chapter is recycled from a chapter in my drabbles, but it's polished up and Tseng got a lot more character development here, so I hope you enjoy if you've already read the other version.

Veld was sitting in his office at the Shinra building, digging through the Science Department’s budget files. It was a slim chance, but if Hojo was really keeping a kid hostage somewhere, there would be expenses involved. It wasn’t like Veld expected Hojo to put “ _baby formula_ ” on the itemized billing list, but there had to be something. Extra expenses without apparent sources, starting around the time Hojo returned from Nibelheim…

“Boss?” The voice came from inside his office, and Veld jumped a little in his seat, hand automatically going for the gun beneath his desk before he registered who was speaking.  
“Fuck!” he breathed in surprise. “Tseng. You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that.”

“I knocked,” his partner informed him with a raised eyebrow. “You never checked in when you got back,” he pointed out, not scolding, but concerned.

“Sorry,” Veld said sincerely, shuffling his papers into a neater stack and looking up to meet his partner’s eyes. Tseng looked back at him, his dark gaze steady and searching. 

“Are you all right, boss?” the younger man asked gently. Veld was pretty sure the other Turks knew where he went on the days he left to visit Vincent’s grave, but no one else would have dared to say anything to him. Tseng came closer, settling down into the chair across from Veld at his desk. Veld lit a cigarette.

Veld wasn’t sure how to answer that question. Was he all right? He wasn’t sure. In some ways, seeing Vincent alive and then losing him again was perhaps even more painful than losing him in the first place. It picked at old wounds, ones that had long scabbed over, leaving them fresh and bleeding again. But at the same time, Vincent was out there somewhere, _alive_ , and it was like some secret light had flickered into existence in his world. Everything still felt surreal right now.

He was met with a sudden, burning need to speak the events into existence, to share what had happened with someone else in hopes that it might make it seem more like reality. Tseng was the only person he really confided in sometimes, the only person—aside from Vincent, of course—who he really trusted.

“The door locked?” Veld asked, waiting for Tseng to rise and turn the bolt.

“Something happened,” Tseng observed as he returned to his chair.

“I found something at the manor,” Veld began after a moment. He opened one of the folders, sliding it across the table towards Tseng. “I have reason to believe that Hojo was performing experimentation on humans at Nibelheim, and that Lucrecia’s child survived birth.”

“And you are digging through fifteen-year-old expense reports because…”

“Because Hojo would have taken the least amount of time covering his tracks here. His records aren’t the most detailed, but if I can find something here without digging into anything more heavily guarded…”

Tseng picked up the folder and a pen and began skimming the document with a critical eye. They sat that way in silence for a while, the two men digging through files together, annotating occasionally.

“So,” Tseng began after the long silence, not looking up from his work. “You want to tell me what’s really going on?”

“I didn’t lie,” Veld replied.

“You didn’t tell me everything either,” Tseng observed, finally looking up from the document in his hands to meet Veld’s eyes steadily. “I _am_ your partner, Veld,” he continued, quieter. That word didn’t meant to the same thing to Veld that it once had, he knew. It made him sad, sometimes, living in Valentine’s shadow. Tseng had been a cadet when the man had disappeared, but he still remembered him, remembered how much he admired the way Vincent and Veld and worked together, how in sync they were. It was only when he grew older, only after he had gotten to know Veld better, that he realized there was something deeper to their relationship. He didn’t ask Veld for details. He would tell him when he wanted him to know.

Veld was silent for a long time, so long that Tseng thought he wouldn’t reply at all, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low.

“I would be dragging you in to something dangerous,” he warned quietly. “Something Shinra doesn’t know about, _can’t_ know about. It’s the kind of thing that could get us killed.”

“I’m your _partner_ ,” Tseng reiterated firmly. Veld sighed. Turks were loyal to each other, not the company. It had always been that way. He should have known better than to think that Tseng would let him do this alone. Something Vincent had said came back to him then.

_Still sending your help away when you’re in danger and need it the most?_ he had asked Veld back at the Mansion, his tone bitter. Veld had sent him away to Nibelheim because he thought he could keep him safe there, that he could spare him the gore and danger of whatever power grab Shinra had been planning in Midgar. He’d been fucking stupid. Valentine was a Turk. He didn’t need Veld’s protection. All he’d done is ensure that each one of them had to face their dangers alone, and it had gotten Vincent killed. Was he really about to make the same mistake again with Tseng?

“My apartment, then,” Veld said after a long while with a nod. “After work. We shouldn’t talk about this here.”

Tseng nodded, closed the file folder, and rose from his chair. He walked around the table to add the file back to Veld’s stack, resting his hand on the man’s shoulder as he did, giving it a light squeeze. Veld placed a hand over his, briefly.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Tseng murmured warmly.

* * *

Veld was cooking when Tseng arrived at his apartment, letting himself in with his key. He put the twelve-pack he’d brought in the refrigerator and grabbed a pair of beers for the two of them, opening Veld’s for him before setting it down on the counter near him.

“Chicken marsala?” Tseng asked, glancing over Veld’s shoulder. He older man nodded. “You need help with anything?”

“Almost done,” Veld replied, shaking his head. “You can go ahead and grab the dishes if you want.”

They finished setting up dinner in relative silence, working like a well-oiled machine. It was a comfortable silence, though, one well-rehearsed. They usually ate dinner together at least a few times a week. It was easier cooking for two than for one, and they both preferred their quiet comradery to crowded restaurants or lonely meals of take-out by the television. It reminded Veld a lot of cooking together with another raven-haired man in this apartment…

Deep down, Veld was a bit ashamed that it had taken him seven years of partnership with Tseng to acknowledge that the young man reminded him entirely too much of Vincent. He didn’t understand how he had even deluded himself about it, not when he’d been half-convinced the first time he glimpsed Tseng that the boy had been a ghost, his memories projected in 3D.

_The first time Veld saw Tseng in the Shinra building, flanked by two Security Officers, the Déjà vu had hit him like a freight train, and he’d had to pause to make sure he wasn’t seeing a ghost. A slender child, sketched in dark and pale, long black hair falling into his face where it had escaped the tail he kept it in, black clothes stark against his pallor. His face was blood-stained too, but the spatter was the kind a person got when they were standing too close to someone on the receiving end of violence, rather than committing that violence themselves._

_That was the first difference that struck him, the first thing that had set the child apart from Vincent on the day he’d been brought in; unlike Tseng, Vincent had been responsible for every bit of the violence that led to the lifeblood he’d been drenched in, but after that the spell was broken. He was younger, his delicate features detectably Wutian. His eyes were dark, not that familiar warm mahogany. Not an echo of Vincent then, and certainly not a ghost. So far as he knew, his partner had no intention of dying anytime soon. This child was a stranger, just another lost pup swept up from the slums or the syndicate or one of the terrorist organizations that grew in number as Shinra grew in power._

_Still, that child’s gaze felt too familiar to him when the kid glanced up to meet his eyes, focusing on him with a glare. Not familiar in color, or shape, but in the presence of an intensity and anger that never should have existed in a child that young. He walked through the same door Vincent had disappeared through that day, all of those years ago, swallowed up by the Shinra Building, lost in its bowels, tested and beaten until he either broke or hardened to steel._

_The sense of Déjà vu when Veld saw Tseng for the second time, and met him for the first, was no less profound. He overfilled his coffee mug when the dark-haired young man walked in to the Turk’s breakroom in the Shinra Building, wearing navy slacks, a black tie, and a white button-down without a blazer—attire that marked him as a scrub: a rookie who had passed Academy but didn’t have a partner assignment yet. It was a recent and minor demotion, but it gave the new kids something to look forward to: “earning their suit,” they’d started calling it._

_The kid had changed a lot since the first time he’d met him, but that was to be expected. Veld had learned not long after the boy’s arrival that he’d only been nine when they brought him in. Picked him up while infiltrating some hacker terrorist cell. Supposedly he’d been some sort of child prodigy. Veld certainly hadn’t expected him to wind up here, in this merry siblinghood of former child soldiers_.

Former? Veld mused now with new, older eyes. _Did becoming a Turk at sixteen make someone a “former” child soldier, or just a child soldier?_ Looking back now as a person fast approaching fifty, the knowledge that Shinra kidnapped children and dressed them up as killers bothered him in a way it hadn’t even at forty, when Tseng had sauntered into the break room with an easy arrogance that had also been so achingly familiar.

Just as familiar as the intensity of his stare had been, that first day, Veld realized now, and he wondered again how he had been so damn blind for so many years that he hadn’t even noticed how much his affection for Vincent was part of what made him so soft on this boy.

 _And also like Vincent, he had walked through the Shinra Building like he owned it on his first day, navy suit jacket or no, which was why Veld ended up with coffee down the front of his slacks first thing in the morning. At that point, first impressions probably couldn’t have been worse on his end._ Well _,_ _Veld had mused at the time_ , that coffee could have landed about two inches further left and burned my dick off. That probably would have been worse. _He managed to keep his cool, though, and instead of expelling a passionate soliloquy of swear words into the air in discomfort and frustration, he just picked up a rag and calmly dabbed at the spot despite the burning._

 _“Good morning, boss,” Tseng had said with an arched eyebrow._ Tseng had called everyone “boss” back then, a habit he’d no doubt picked up from some other cadet. Veld had playfully teased him about it relentlessly until he dropped it, but now that Veld technically _was_ his boss, the little fucker got revenge whenever he could by using the title.

_“Veld’ll do just fine, kiddo,” he’d responded, forcing a sarcastic smile and trying to keep his voice cool through his frustration. The kid stepped forward, offered him a hand. His grip was strong despite the slenderness of his build, a trait that hadn’t gone away as he’d grown, it seemed._

_“Tseng,” he replied, granting him a smile just a touch too mocking to be called “polite.” Veld wondered if most people caught that arrogant slant to his words and guessed not. He had a lot more practice than most at reading people who didn’t want to be read. Veld’s returning smile had a hint of an edge on it._

_“You know, the older I get, the more amused I am by kids like you,” he said, adopting the experienced-elder tone made more convincing by the recent rasp his smoking habit had added to his voice. “Swaggering in here like you think a suit and a Shinra-sanctioned license to kill make you hard men.” Tseng’s own smile grew equally as sharp._

_“I don’t think a suit makes me a hard man, Veld,” he’d said intimately, ice buried in his tone. “Watching my parents die when I was six made me a hard man. Watching Shinra gun down my adopted family, feeling the heat of their blood splash on my face, made me a hard man. The seven years between then and now have made me a hard man. The suit’s just to make me sexy.”_

_And how the fuck was Veld supposed to respond to_ that _—an apology or laughter? In the end, he went with laughter. Kid was going in for the shock, seeing if he would back down. He wouldn’t._

The fucking kid is testing _me, he’d realized with vague surprise and…was that admiration, maybe? Scrubs, as a general rule, spent their time kissing ass, making friends, or trying to impress the seasoned Turks with their skills. It was the_ Turks _who were supposed to test_ them _, not the other way around. But no, that wasn’t really fair. This test was a mutual one, one the kid was admittedly passing. All Turks were assholes, so it was preferable to be around the ones who were at least witty about it._

_“Well, you’re in good company,” Veld chuckled. He doubted a single member of this organization lacked more than their fair share of childhood trauma._

_“They do say that’s one perk about hell,” Tseng said blithely with a shrug._

_Veld probably should have known that first day, all those years ago that he had first glimpsed Tseng, flanked by Security Officers, and the child had looked through his soul with those dark, dark eyes, that Tseng would end up as his partner one day. Instead it took exactly one conversation in the breakroom, verbally sparring with an arrogant teenager while coffee went cold on the leg of his pants._

“Everything run smoothly with me gone?” Veld asked as they fixed their plates, shaking himself back into reality. Tseng chuckled.

“You were gone two days, boss. I know It might be hard to believe, but the company managed to survive that long without you.”

Veld smirked at that, popped the tops off of two more beers, settled down at the table.

“Well, I did leave it entrusted to your capable hands,” he said, offering Tseng a mock-toast. There was another silence while they passed the salad bowl around. “Would you want my job, Tseng, if someone offered it to you?” Veld asked after a while, contemplative.

“Sir?” Tseng asked hesitantly, arching one delicate eyebrow.

“I’ve told you a thousand fucking times not to call me that,” Veld said with an exasperated sigh. “Especially not outside of work.” Tseng shook his head as if to clear it.

“Sorry. Slipped. What the hell are you talking about?”

Veld sighed, took a bite of bread. Chewed. Swallowed, unhurried.

“ _Veld_ ,” Tseng said firmly.

“Vincent’s alive,” he whispered.

“What?” Tseng breathed, freezing. It felt like someone had hit him in the gut. Valentine alive? He was dimly aware that he should probably be happy at that news, for Veld’s sake if nothing else. So why did it feel like the foundations of his world were crumbling beneath his feet? When he realized Veld had no intention of repeating himself, he changed his question. “How?”

“There are a lot of things I can’t explain,” Veld said with a sigh. “My secrets are yours if you want them, Tseng, but…his secrets are not mine to tell.”

“I understand,” Tseng assured. “What does this have to do with your job?”

Veld gazed off into the distance for a while, a storm raging in his eyes. finally, he sighed, some of the tension leaving him.

“I miss him, Tseng,” Veld admitted finally, his voice a sad, quiet thing. “I’ve already lost thirteen years with him. The thought of losing more… If the time comes that I have to choose between the company and Vincent…I made the wrong choice last time. I won’t make it again. I…He’s…”

“It’s fine,” Tseng interrupted gently. “You don’t have to explain what he is to you.” Veld fell abruptly silent at that, and Tseng thought he caught a flicker of remorse cross his face. “Unless you _want_ to. I just didn’t want you to feel obligated to if it’s something that makes you uncomfortable. You never talk about him.”

“I usually don’t feel like I can,” Veld admitted. Tseng reached across the table, rested his hand on top of Veld’s.

“You know you can trust me, Veld,” he murmured. He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Spoke. “I know you were in love with him.”

Veld closed his eyes, sat still for a moment. Finally, he sighed, opening his eyes to meet Tseng’s.

“Yeah,” he croaked at last. “Yeah, I was. I am.”

Tseng rose, got more beer for both of them, returned to the table. For a while, they ate in silence.

“I know you’re worried about others knowing,” Tseng began after a little while, “but I don’t think that any of us would care. I can’t speak for the company’s men, but _us_ , your Turks…We’re family.”

“My family threw me out when they caught me in bed with another boy,” Veld said dryly. “I was twelve. So not exactly the most ringing endorsement of your loyalty.”

Tseng reached out and grabbed Veld’s arm firmly, pressing the almost-identical burn scars on their wrists flush against each other. His gaze was dark and intense, and for a brief moment, Veld lost himself in it. 

“I have bled for you, and you for me,” he said lowly, his voice matching his gaze. “That makes us family because I say it does. Family is something you _choose_ , not something you are born into.” He released Veld from his grip and his gaze, sighing. “I won’t say anything, of course,” he added as an afterthought.

“Thank you, Tseng,” Veld murmured. They cleared their plates, opened more beer, and moved into Veld’s living room. Tseng settled down in his usual armchair, crossing his legs beneath him, and Veld stretched across the sofa.

“You never told me what this has to do with the kid,” Tseng pointed out after a while.

“Do I need a reason, other than the fact that it’s entirely possible _Hojo_ has been in control of the nurturing and development of another _human being_ for the past decade and a half?”

“No,” Tseng admitted, “but I know that you have one.”

Veld couldn’t help but smile a little bit at that; the kid knew him well. It was a bit unfair, really, since Veld could never exactly get a read on Tseng. He was different from the rest of them, _whole_ in a way the other Turks weren’t. It was strange; he had never had trouble understanding Vincent’s darkness, but he still couldn’t see through Tseng’s murky greys.

“There was this scientist, on the Jenova Project,” Veld started after a long moment. “A woman. Pretty. Around Vincent’s age. They had some sort of…fling. I know he cares about her, and that is _her_ child. If that boy is still alive, getting him out of Hojo’s clutches might grant Vincent a bit of peace, and gods, Tseng, he fucking needs it.”

“Those…secrets of his that you can’t tell me,” Tseng began haltingly. “There are…a lot of them, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Veld mumbled. “And they’re… _bad_. Look, if you insist on getting caught up in this shit with me, you have to promise me you’ll be careful. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

“Promise,” Tseng intoned sincerely.

“Work on making a second copy of those files for me tomorrow, all right? There’s another pair of eyes I want to take a look at them.”


	3. The Dark of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veld employs Vincent's help with the investigation.

“That didn’t take long.” Vincent was leaning against the wall of the cave he and Veld were both standing in, expression inscrutable behind his cowl. It hadn’t been—just long enough for the letter he sent to Vincent to reach him at the mansion through the back channels. It had still felt like forever, and the low rumble of Vincent’s voice sounded unbearably sweet to him. “Since certainly your next words will detail the exact location of a certain missing boy, I won’t bother asking why you’re here.”

Veld winced. Most people wouldn’t have caught the expression, but Vincent did. He didn’t reply, reaching into his bag and pulling out the extra copy of Hojo’s expense reports instead, passing them over to Vincent. He took them without a word, holding the documents a bit awkwardly in his clawed hand as he skimmed through them with the other.

“I figured if Hojo had really taken in a child—”

“There would be expenses associated,” Vincent cut in, waving the rest of the explanation away.

“You’ve always been better at this part of it than me,” Veld explained. “You might find something I would miss.”

It was true. Vincent may have been a Turk, but he was still his father’s son, intelligent and observant, good with documents and data. In a strange twist of irony, Veld was good with _people_. He was a brash, abrasive motherfucker most days, known for his temper and hostile tongue. But he also knew everyone’s names. And their children’s names, the names of their pets. He knew how all of the other Turks took their coffee, what pastries they were fond of. He ribbed them mercilessly, and now that he was Director, he was known to deck subordinates for sloppy errors, but he knew how to cut in with a comedic jab at the perfect time to alleviate tension, knew exactly what words to say to help his comrades keep fighting. For all that Veld agreed that Vincent should do the talking when it came to questioning suspects or interviewing reporters, Vincent was hopeless with people outside of a professional setting. But he was damn good with documents.

“Thank you,” Vincent said at length. “ I will take a look at them.”

“You could always do that now. With me. Over drinks,” Veld suggested, a smile creeping onto his lips despite himself. Vincent’s eyes narrowed a little, and Veld sighed. “The reports are quarterly. It’s a lot to go over, but it shouldn’t take more than a night. If you find something, I can start looking into it tomorrow instead of the news having to travel through backchannels in the mail to Midgar.”

It was Vincent’s turn to sigh then, and Veld knew that he had him.

“There’s a town about ten miles from here,” he continued with confidence, not waiting for Vincent to respond. “I brought my own truck this time. We can ride there, get a room for the night…” Veld trailed off suggestively.

“ _Look at these documents,”_ Vincent finished firmly. Veld sighed, laughed a little.

“Can’t blame a man for trying,” Veld said with a shrug. “What do you say?”

Vincent looked away for a long while, staring down at the sabatons on his feet, lost in thought. Veld had given up hope of him responding and was about to press him further when he finally glanced up at him. All Veld could see were his eyes, but he could still read the fondness in his expression.

“All right, Verdot,” he murmured in agreement at last.

They piled into the truck Veld had rented in the nearest town, a shabby thing in little better condition than the one he’d been given a ride in by that farmer in Nibelheim, when he’d last visited the mansion. It was small and battered, but reliable, and had four-wheel drive. Vincent looked almost comical in the passenger’s seat, those slender legs of his too damn long to fit naturally in the cockpit. He looked a bit scrunched, but he didn’t complain, propping his gauntleted forearm on the rolled-down window as they took the winding mountain roads back to the nearest town. Veld parked in the street outside of the first inn they saw, a little bed-and-breakfast on the outskirts of town.

“Just wait here,” Veld murmured, shifting it over into park. “I’ll get us a room.”

He came back a few moments later with a room key in his hands, and Vincent grabbed his bag and followed him up a back staircase to their room. As soon as they opened the door, Veld was glad he’d chosen to pull over and stay here. Their room was a quaint, floral-patterned thing with lace on the linens and a private bathroom. Everything smelled like lavender.

“You should go ahead and get a bath,” Veld suggested as Vincent shrugged his bag off by the door. “I think I’m going to run into town, grab us a few things. The little old lady who owns this place seemed awful sweet, but something tells me she doesn’t just keep good whiskey in the pantry, you know? I’ll get you some wine, too, if I think I can find something to satisfy the tastes of your lordliness,” he teased, sketching Vincent a mock-bow. A half-hearted smile flickered on Vincent’s lips. Died.

“Vince?” he whispered, moving in a half-step closer to the man. Suddenly, Veld wanted to hold him so badly that it hurt, but Vincent hadn’t so much as touched him since they’d met in the cave, and he wanted to let his partner set the pace of this. His hand twitched at his side. Hung there, useless.

“I’m all right,” Vincent murmured lowly. Veld stopped.

“I’ll leave the files, in case you get done before I’m back,” he said quietly, turning back to grab the files from his bag and lay them on the vanity in their rented room. As he turned to leave again, he wanted to kiss Vincent so badly, but…

 _Fuck it._ Veld thought to himself, stepping forward, one hand reaching up to knot in Vincent’s tangled black hair. He’d spent thirteen years without this man. How many times, during the days without him, had he found himself thinking that if he were still there, he would kiss him whenever he wanted, wherever he wanted, the rest of the world be damned…

So Veld caught Vincent’s mouth with his own, licked into him insistently until Vincent finally parted his lips and Veld plunged in, desperate to taste him.

There was a spectrum of taste that Veld associated with kissing men—cigars and cigarettes and those cheap, fruit-flavored things younger men tended to favor; the heady taste of marijuana; beer and whiskey, spiced rum; coffee and gum; sweat, salty and gleaming and tinged with the neon lights of some bar—but Vincent just tasted like… _Vincent_. There was nothing else to relate it to.

“Hey,” he murmured warmly, pulling his lips away from Vincent’s and resting his chin on the taller man’s chest. “You still with me?”

“Right here,” Vincent assumed him, his voice quiet and uncertain, but warm. “Go on. I’ll be waiting when you get back.”

Veld kissed him one more time, a quick, light peck to the lips, before turning towards the door, assuring his partner that he would be back soon. Armed with an umbrella, he made his way through the near-empty marketplace as the sunny weather shifted abruptly towards rain. He tried not to take it as an omen. They were near the coast, after all. Sudden rains were a frequent occurrence here.

Prior to anything else, he went clothes shopping; not for himself, but for Vincent. He tried to remember what sizes he’d worn himself fifteen years ago— _Well, fuck, bigger difference there than I’d realized_ , he noted with something that may have been embarrassment—and went a few down from that. He just got him a few essentials—shirts _(long sleeved, because Veld had seen the way Vincent had flinched when his eyes lingered over his scars),_ pants, socks, underwear—all in black, of course, because other than the navy blue and white of his Turk uniform, Veld had never seen Vincent wear anything else.

Finished with that, he picked up ingredients for a dinner they could make easily without proper cookware or a stove, ingredients for a salad and lunchmeats and cheese with brioche buns for sandwiches. Lastly, he picked up a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of red wine the shop clerk assured him would please his “picky friend.”

When he returned to the inn, Vincent was sitting in the floor of their room, files spread out in front of him, pen in hand. He was wearing the pajamas Veld had last seen him in at the Shinra Mansion, though the simple black cotton outfit looked more rumpled than it had before. His hair was damp, tucked behind one ear but loose around his shoulders. A floral teacup sat on a saucer beside him, steaming. It was an almost unbearably homey sight. They had passed a lot of evenings this way.

“Hey,” Veld said quietly, stepping around him to the mini-fridge and slipping their groceries inside. Vincent was staring down at the documents with a fierce determination, and he knew better than to interrupt that.

The first day that he’d seen Vincent that way was the day Veld decided he wanted to take the kid on as his partner. He’d been a rookie at the time, serving rotations with Turks that needed partners, trying to let them decide who meshed well with who.

 _Veld had to admit that he didn’t expect his month-long tour of duty with Vincent to go well. He liked the kid; he couldn’t deny that. But he couldn’t fucking explain it either. When Vincent wasn’t busy being scathingly sarcastic, he was aloof, too calm and polite to be called “cold,” but it was worse somehow, like he just…went somewhere else. He barely talked, and when he did he was typically either an utter jackass or so painfully polite it made Veld want to choke him. Not to mention that the young man’s mahogany eyes_ did _things to him, things he wasn’t comfortable feeling outside of a dark bedroom or a dimly-lit bar._

_Their first mission was going about the way Veld had expected. They were heading out to investigate, for once, rather than knock heads, and they were strangely relaxed as they headed to their destination, even awarded the luxury of riding in a car instead of taking their bikes._

_Vincent had said four fucking words. “Morning,” in response to Veld’s “Hey,” as they greeted each other that morning, and “Anything is fine,” in response to Veld asking what he wanted to hear on the radio. Since then, he’d been sitting in the passenger seat, doing that thing where he went somewhere inside his own head and got lost for a little while._ It was funny, how something Veld found so endearing now had annoyed the piss out of him so much at the time. _Veld turned up the radio and sang softly along. He’d never had someone tell him he had a good voice, but he could carry a tune passably despite his rough, reckless tenor. The radio station switched to commercials. Impatient, Veld scanned through the channels, trying to pick up something other than shitty adverts or static. The road got particularly twisty, and he had to keep both hands on the wheel for a minute. The radio stopped on a station he hadn’t heard before, some classical bullshit, and Vincent’s eyes flitted down to the radio for the barest instant, so briefly Veld barely even caught it. He left the station where it was, spent the rest of the ride watching Vincent tap his fingers along to the music on his knee discreetly with mild amusement._

_For once, he was actually anchored to the world a little bit, and though nothing had really changed about him outwardly, Veld couldn’t stop studying him in quick glances. His gaze was intense, some part of him clearly swept away—both here and not—though Veld could hardly explain exactly how he knew. It was something in his eyes, those fingers barely drumming on his knee._

_“We’re here.” Veld’s voice sounded strangely gruff to his own ears. It had been a long morning, one spent almost entirely in silence. He was used to talking more than this. He_ saw _the moment Vincent flickered fully back to reality like a light switch being flipped. He glanced up, taking in their surroundings, and gave Veld a nod._

_They’d been sent out to investigate the base of a terrorist organization the Turks had been chasing down for the better part of a year now. Some local-level punk-ass Security Officer had bungled into their headquarters by accident and managed to send out a signal for help before he got himself offed. Now, they had to sort through what was left behind in hopes of finding clues._

_Veld had been furious when he’d heard. This terrorist cell, they weren’t like a lot of the other anti-Shinra rabble; they were organized, meticulous, careful to cover their tracks. They had finally,_ finally _been closing in on them, and now they’d vanished into the ether again. He wished that fucking Security Officer had survived so he could beat the shit out of him._

 _Vincent cast Veld a_ look _when he closed his car door too hard, one of those infuriating, inscrutable things it had taken him more than a year to learn to read reliably, and Veld took a few deep breaths. He told himself that they were bound to find something here, that no one was good enough to cover their tracks that well. All they needed was to catch one of them, just one, make them talk…_

_The terrorist’s HQ was actually a dilapidated townhouse in some shitty neighborhood below the plate. They cleared it again, just to be sure, and began their search. Veld started in the obvious places—drawers in the kitchen and the side table in the living-room, today’s mail still sitting on the floor beneath the mail slot. Vincent found the office, started digging through the contents of the desk. Veld joined him a little while later, none of his leads panning out, and together they began to work through the piles of paper scattered across the workspace._

_“The fuck is this?” Veld breathed after a little while, opening a bound notebook filled with odd symbols he couldn’t recognize. Vincent looked up, moved over to him. Growing at least another six inches in the five years since Veld had first met him hadn’t made him move any differently, still just as quick and fluid as ever. “I don’t recognize the language.”_

_“That’s because it’s code,” Vincent cut it, smoothly taking the book from Veld’s hand before he could react. He scrounged up blank paper and a pen and settled down in the floor of the study._ That was another thing he would learn about Vincent eventually—he needed space to work, and oft as not that space tended to be the closest bit of clear floor. _Veld just watched him for a moment, eyes travelling helplessly along the long line of his nose, lingering over the fullness of his lips, fingers wanting desperately to reach out and push his ebony hair back from his eyes , eyes that were gazing at the documents before them when an intensity that shouldn’t be present in a kid so young. Finally, the gears in his head started creaking back into motion._

_“If we’re keeping to our theory that this organization is from Wutai, in might be written in Wutian. We should keep that in mind while we’re trying to crack the—”_

_“The language is most certainly Wutian. Given the grammatical structure, it’s impossible for it to be anything else,” Vincent interrupted, not looking up from the notebook._

_“It’s good that you could narrow that down so quick—“ Veld tried for a compliment, but Vincent cut him off again, actually looking away from his precious notebook to glare._

_“Can you please stop talking?” Vincent asked sharply. Veld held his hands up in mock (mock? It_ was _mock, right?) surrender, taking a minute step back. Vincent glanced back down, and for a while, Veld just...watched him. Watched him scratch annotations into margins in that small, sharp hand of his, watched him hastily jot down words on his scratch paper, cross out lines, jot more. He didn’t know that it was possible to look so focused, so absorbed in something. It was…intriguing, the way Vincent could center on something with such single-mindedness, but as much as Veld enjoyed watching him like this, fully taking your eyes off of your surroundings on the job this way was a an awful habit, the kind you called a partner on if you wanted them to live to see tomorrow. That was clearly a lesson he needed to teach Vincent._

_Veld drew his lighter from his pocket, a battered butane thing he’d burned the last of the fluid out of on their way here, tossed it at Vincent. He had to admit he was shocked when the kid caught it effortlessly, eyes darting up to his in a glare again._

_“You got a light?” he asked, trying to keep his voice cool. That…wasn’t exactly how he had expected that to go. Clearly Vincent was paying more attention than he’d thought._ That, Veld had realized soon, was another thing that made his partner so dangerous. It was so easy to assume that he wasn’t listening, that he wasn’t paying attention. And sure, it was true that Vincent lived half in his own world most of the time, but the half that remained was more than observant enough on its own.

_“Are you going to do something useful?” Vincent asked casually, returning his attention back to the notebook. Sufficiently shamed, Veld returned to the other papers still littering the desk, not pausing again until finally Vincent spoke, his voice low and breathless._

_“This is a fucking manifesto.”_

It had, in fact, been a fucking manifesto. A manifesto that would allow them to positively identify the leader of the terrorist organization and take him out. A manifesto written in coded Wutain that Vincent had cracked in approximately ten minutes. That was the day Veld made up his mind about which of the new recruits he wanted as a partner.

Vincent finally looked up at him from his scattered papers.

“You find anything?” Veld asked.

“Not yet,” he replied absently. “Tell me everything that you know about SOLDIER. It keeps coming up in the budget.”

Veld sighed, settled down at the small table in their room, started making sandwiches. Finished. Decided to get a whiskey before talking about this.

“Shinra’s new pet project,” he began at last. “It wasn’t enough, I guess, to take in street kids and turn them into trained killers; now they’re taking kids and making _super-soldiers_ out of them. And not even kids like us, Vin. They’re kids people _want_ , kids with families, and the people they love _encourage them_ to participate in this shit. It’s considered _prestigious_ , to be recruited and injected with Mako and the who fuck even knows what else in the name of becoming a better killer for the company.”

Vincent, a sick feeling settling in his stomach, feared that he knew exactly what else those recruits had been injected with. Jenova cells. He closed the file he’d been looking at and joined Veld at the table, rising again a moment later as an afterthought and grabbing the bottle of wine Veld had brought back from the market. He poured some in one of the floral teacups their host had provided.

“You finished looking already?” Veld asked with mild surprise. He hadn’t expected Vincent to take a break so soon. Honestly, he hadn’t expected Vincent to take a break at all. It was unlike him to pause in the middle of something.

“No need to bother,” Vincent murmured, taking a long sip of his wine. “He’ll be there. Somewhere in the SOLDIER program. He was the start of all this.”

“Fuck.” Veld sighed and took another sip of his whiskey. “Well, I guess when I get back to Midgar I’ll dig up everything I can on SOLDIER.”

“Be careful. Information about the program will no doubt be much more heavily monitored than some old expense reports.”

‘You are aware this is my _job_ , right?” Veld asked, mock-insulted, arching an eyebrow. “In the meantime, it seems like we have a free night together, a night already paid for at some adorable ass little inn..” Veld led off suggestively. Vincent didn’t look up from his sandwich, and Veld dropped the topic, trying to hide his biting disappointment.

“I got you some clothes when I was in town,” Veld stated, finally breaking the long silence. They had finished eating long ago, but they lingered at the table, nursing their drinks. “You should try them on, see if they fit.” Vincent arched an eyebrow at that, shooting Veld a questioning look, but the man simply shrugged. “You aren’t exactly what I’d call inconspicuous, Vin,” he observed, eyes flickering over his getup of red wool and black leather.

“I don’t think that’s in the cards for me anymore,” he observed, raising his gauntleted hand to illustrate his point. His eyes were incredibly red in the low lamplight. Veld just glanced over to where his red cloak was draped across the headboard, pointedly. Vincent sighed. “Thank you, Veld. I’ll try them.”

Veld nodded his head towards the clothes on the bed, admittedly disappointed when Vincent went into the bathroom when he changed. He came out a few moments later, wearing a lightweight knit sweater and black jeans. The sweater was a bit too big, but the extra fabric draped well. Veld couldn’t help but smile as he came to sit down at the table with him, and he reached across the space between then to brush one side of his hair behind his ear.

“Fuck, it’s unfair how handsome you are,” Veld murmured breathlessly, his fingers lingering among strands of Vincent’s hair. It was still as soft as he remembered, even if it was a lot more likely to ensnare him in tangles than it had once been. Vincent put his left hand on top of Veld’s, careful not to cut him on the sharp edges of his gauntlet.

“Are you complaining?” Vincent asked in a light, taunting tone that almost sounded like himself. Veld groaned a little.

“Gods, only because you won’t let me throw you on the bed and strip you naked,” Veld growled, the statement some strange thing midway between pillow-talk and desperation.

“You just _clothed_ me,” Vincent pointed out, but his voice was low now, with a hint of a tease. Veld leaned in for a kiss, and Vincent drew back suddenly, as if waking from some trance. “Veld,” he pleaded as the other man tried to follow him, and Veld drew back immediately, waiting for Vincent to speak. “I…My control hasn’t been the best lately. I shouldn’t take the risk.”

Veld understood his meaning immediately, something Vincent was glad for.

“…Is it all of them, or just one in particular?” Veld asked hesitantly. He knew Vincent didn’t like to talk about the demons. He never had, even when his only demon had been himself.

Vincent looked away. “One in particular.”

“Chaos?” Veld asked tentatively, visibly relieved when Vincent shook his head. “I trust you, Vincent,” he assured him in a whisper.

“I’m not worried that _I_ might hurt you. It isn’t _me_ you need to trust,” Vincent said, a bit bitterly.

Veld knew that Vincent had worked hard to achieve that iron-clad self-control he’d been so famous for among the recruits and the other Turks. He was, in fact, as famous for being unshakably calm as he was for the carnage that happened when he wasn’t. It had taken him years of work to chain his inner demon—not to cage it, but to leash it, ready to be let loose and bite on command. And now he had new demons to contend with.

“It _is_ you I need to trust, Vincent,” Veld assured him firmly. “I trust you to keep control. I remember how hard you worked for it. I meant what I said before, you know, about you already knowing how to control those… _things_ in your head because of what you’ve gone through with your own demon.”

“I just don’t want to hurt you,” Vincent admitted in a whisper. _Blood on a white tiled floor, the scent of blood and antiseptic. Distantly, a girl was screaming…_ Vincent shook the visions clear.

“You can really turn into something I couldn’t handle?” Veld asked, mock-incredulous.

“Other than _Chaos_?”

“Other than Chaos.” Veld rolled his eyes, as if that were obvious. “You said he’s not the one putting up a fight, right?”

“Right,” Vincent agreed reluctantly.

“Then, yeah. Other than _fucking_ Chaos, can you seriously turn into something that can kick my ass?”

“Veld, _I_ can kick your ass,” Vincent said, and Veld couldn’t tell if he was joking. He laughed anyway. He knew it was true. He sighed after a long moment, though, and when he spoke his tone was serious.

“It _hurts_ , not touching you. Knowing that you exist somewhere in the world and I can’t kiss you, can’t smell you, can’t run my fingers through your hair, it hurts like a fucking phantom pain—this throbbing, inconsolable ache at what should be here but’s missing.”

Veld saw Vincent clench his left hand into a fist at those words and felt immediately guilty. He reached out and rested his hand on Vincent’s metal forearm, absently stroking what used to be familiar flesh decorated with a familiar tattoo. Veld wore a matching one in the same spot. They’d gotten them together on the first anniversary of their official appointment as partners. He couldn’t help but wonder if Hojo had done this just to hurt him because he guessed the mark was something significant, or if there was some other reason behind it. He didn’t have the heart to ask Vincent, didn’t know if he would even know the answer anyway.

“I don’t want to push you,” Veld murmured. “But I also don’t want fear to get in the way of us loving each other. Not anymore. So if you don’t want this, or feel like you can’t do it, then fine. I won’t say another word. But if you’re only holding back because you’re afraid…” He shook his head. “I lost so many years with you because both of us were afraid that bad things might happen. Let’s not make that mistake again.”

“Are you really acting like those two things are comparable?” Vincent asked tonelessly with a raised eyebrow. “Holding back because we were afraid about the impact openly sleeping with each other would have on our careers and holding back because I’m afraid I might _transform into a monster and tear you to shreds?_ That’s the analogy that you’re going with? Do you plan on sticking with that?”

“I’m still astounded some days that I decided to kiss that pretty fucking mouth of yours instead of slap it,” Veld grumbled. He sighed, shook his head. “Look, I’ve seen you ground yourself in some pretty shitty situations, that’s all. If you can watch me get tortured and keep your cool, I think we’ll be okay.”

_Veld was tied to the chair situated in the middle of the floor, bound to the piece of furniture at wrists and ankles. He tested the rope—tight, too tight, biting into skin as he shifted—no getting out there. The chair was metal, too sturdy to tip over in hopes it might break in a way that would allow him to get rid of his bonds. On the table beside him waited a menagerie of old tools—rusted pliars, dull saws, hammers, nails…was that a fucking blowtorch?—but he might as well call them what they were—torture instruments. Meant for him._

_Yet still, somehow, it was Vincent he was worried about. He was chained to the radiator nearby, handcuffed at the wrists. Kneeling on the hard concrete floor, he stared up at Veld through the dark curtain of his hair, mahogany eyes wild and dangerous. They’d never been through this before, together, but they both knew what was coming. The men who had taken them had left them alone for a while, for the fear to grow, he supposed. Veld knew him well enough already to know that it wasn’t fear he could see growing in Vincent’s eyes._

_“Vincent,” Veld hissed across the room in a loud whisper that wouldn’t be overheard through the walls. “Hey, I need you to stay with me, okay? I can’t move for shit and you’re a lot less restrained than I am. You have to find us a way out of this, and you gotta keep your head to do that, all right?”_

_Vincent closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, nodded._

_“You know what’s coming?” Veld checked, his voice quieter. Vincent nodded again. “They have a lot of shit here, so they probably plan on taking their time, but it’s gonna get bad. And I need you not to give a shit.” He winced a little at the glare Vincent shot him, a fiery, incredulous thing, but he didn’t relent. “You can’t afford to give a shit, okay?” he repeated firmly. “Not until this is all over and done.”_

_Vincent closed his eyes, and Veld watched him fight down his anger like it was something physical before the kid nodded again. It was about that time that the door opened and three men walked in—a slim, blond guy, mid-thirties, dressed in a sharp grey suit, followed by two hulking bruisers. The two carried nightsticks in enormous, blunt-fingered hands._

_“What the fuck do you want?” Veld asked in a bored, irritated tone. “There are nicer ways to get a guy to do you a favor, you know.” The slim man chuckled._

_“Ah, I see we’ve found a talker here,” he observed. He had a haughty air about him, the kind usually exuded by old money and CEOs. “I do so hope you keep the same spirit, old chap. It will make things a lot easier for you.”_

_“Who the fuck are you?” Veld continued in the same tone._

_“You can’t guess?” the man asked, arching an eyebrow._

_“Shinra has a lot of enemies, mate. You’re gonna need to introduce yourself.” Veld could see the man visibly losing patience. Yeah, guys who thought they were scary generally weren’t too pleased when people weren’t scared of them._

_“I ask the questions here,” the blond man snarled. “And introductions aren’t necessary. I want access codes. High-level security clearance to the Shinra Building. You’re going to give it to me.”_

_Veld laughed at that. “Which means you don’t plan on letting us go. What use are access codes if they’ve been changed? Tell me exactly why I should cooperate with you?” The man’s eyes narrowed. They were a light hue, too dull and colorless to be blue._

_“Well, I was going to offer to free you both after I have taken what I needed from the building,” he said with a shrug. “But instead I think I’ll just torture you until you break, or that pretty boy partner of yours over there tells me what I want to hear, or until you pass out. Whatever comes first. Then if I have to, I’ll wake you up, swap your positions, rinse and repeat as necessary. You want a quick death? Talk.”_

_“A quick death, huh? That’s really all you’ve got to offer us? Eh, I’ll leave it.”_

_“Lindsey,” the slim man prompted, stepping back. One of the bruisers came forward, smacked Veld across the jaw with the nightstick hard enough to make him see stars. He spat blood, hoping it landed on someone._

_“Beaten to fucking death by a man named_ Lindsey _,” Veld groaned, trying to ignore the pain as he spoke. “What a way to go. The other guys aren’t going to shut up about this at my wake. Who the fuck names a boy_ Lindsey _?”_

_Lindsey hit him again, without prompting this time. Harder. When his vision cleared he looked over to Vincent, gave him a warning glare when he saw the madness tinging his eyes. Vincent focused on his breathing as the blond man went for a pair of pliars resting on the table._

_In for four….hold for four.…out for four…. hold for four…._

_In the background, Veld’s taunting curse morphed into a cry of pain._

_In for four….hold for four.…out for four…. hold for four…._

_Another snarky comment from Veld. A grunt and a crack as he was hit again. Vincent couldn’t help it. He opened his eyes. Veld’s nose was bloody. Broken, probably. The middle finger of his left hand certainly was, top knuckle bending ninety degrees in the wrong direction. He felt something_ shift _inside him, red tinging his vision, snakes writhing in his gut…_

_He closed his eyes again. Tighter._

_In for four….hold for four.…out for four…. hold for four…._

_He took his gloves off. Clenched his hands hard enough that his nails bit through skin, and as blood poured from eight little crescent-moon-shaped wounds on his palms, he focused on the pain and let it ground him._

_He focused on the cuffs around his hands. Tight, but not quite as tight as they should have been. He tested their give. Shit. Not enough. Maybe if he broke his thumb…He tested the strength of the radiator pipe next, wrapping his hands around it and pulling as hard as he could, leaving bloody streaks behind on the metal. Useless. Thing was cast iron. It wasn’t going anywhere. Nothing to try to pick the lock with, either._

_Distantly, he registered Veld scream again. His fingernails went back to his palms as he tried to force down the monster he could feel stirring in his head, its bloodlust._

_The handcuffs it was then. Even if he broke his thumb, it was going to be hard. Easier if he had lubricant…He glanced down to the cuts on his palms, the wetness of the blood pooling around them. It wasn’t nearly enough to use, but it gave him an idea. He searched for sharp edges along the radiator, found one—a jagged imperfection in the metal—dragged the edge across his wrist._

_He hissed at the pain, almost let himself go, almost let the berserker take him just to avoid it. His inner demon didn’t feel pain. Not really._

_He held against the urge, closed his eyes again as he wrapped his right hand around his left thumb, taking a few deep breaths. His cry of pain, the crack of his bone as his thumb broke, was lost in the noise of what they were doing to Veld. The endorphins hit him like a Mako high, taking the pain with it, and without that pain to ground him, he almost lost himself again. Hurriedly, he forced his left hand through the handcuff, growling as it pressed tightly against his broken bone…_

“Oh, _that’s_ how you remember that night?” Vincent asked, unable to restrain his laugh. It wasn’t a warm thing, though, coming out cold and bitter. “As a night that I _held my calm_?”

“You watched them _torture_ me, Vince, and you didn’t even fucking _flinch_ ,” he recalled firmly.

“And after I got out of those handcuffs, do you remember that?” Vincent prompted. Veld searched for the memories, couldn’t find them. Just flashes. Finally, he was forced to shake his head.

_One of the goons noticed as Vincent stood, rushed across the room to meet his advance. He raised his nightstick to strike, but Vincent raised his left hand—the broken one—and caught it, unflinching. For the briefest instant, he met the man’s eyes and smiled. Then Vincent’s right fist made contact with his nose, an upward punch that smashed it flat. He fell and didn’t get up again. If Veld was watching, he probably wouldn’t have recognized the man who whirled on the two remaining thugs in that moment, covered in blood and grinning like a maniac. Vincent wouldn’t have blamed him; this creature that had taken control of his skin was hardly him._

_Lindsey turned towards him and flipped a switch on his nightstick. Electricity crackled along the length of the dull weapon, and he cast Vincent a gruesome smile before rushing in. Vincent dodged his first hit, his second, his third. The fourth swing caught him on the shoulder. Some dim, detached part of him recognized the pain, the electrical burns, but he didn’t react to it, just stepped in closer, tucked him into an arm-bar, bending until he heard the bone break. Lindsey dropped his weapon, and Vincent took him down, swift and hard, moving over him to straddle his frame. The man half-reached for his weapon, but Vincent grabbed it first, hit the man across the skull with it until he was an unrecognizable, bloody pulp._

_He looked up for the third man just in time to hear the gun go off. Vaguely, he was aware that it struck him, an uncomfortable pressure in his left shoulder, the muscles not responding right when he tried to move them, but the pain still didn’t register. He threw the nightstick at the man, electricity still on, and struck him in the throat with the powered end. It gave Vincent enough time to rush him, weapons forgone, and pin him against the wall by his throat. Wetness bloomed across his back as the blond man stuck him with a dagger he hadn’t noticed. He jerked the man’s head forward before smashing it back against the wall, hard, repeated the motion until he stopped struggling. He held the man’s limp body and watched the light fade from his hazy eyes before he dropped him and stumbled over to Veld. Vincent pulled the knife out of his back with a gasp, coming back to himself enough to feel it now, and used the blade to cut Veld’s bonds. He vaguely remembered slumping against Veld’s lap as the pain and exhaustion and blood loss began to catch up with him, but everything after that was dark._

“You’ve seen me lose myself twice, Veld,” Vincent said after a long while. “You were just too far out of it to remember.”

“Then you held on as long as you needed to, and then you _used_ that part of you when you needed it. You killed three armed guys with a broken hand and no weapon, Valentine. I don’t think you lost yourself. I think that you let yourself go, and you chain the thing you let take you again when it was no longer useful. The same way you have at least a dozen other times that we’ve fought together. You underestimate yourself. You always have.”

“You’re just trying to get to me agree to sleep with you,” Vincent accused. Veld just laughed at that lightly, fingers trailing across his jaw.

“I am,” he admitted. “But I’m not lying either.” He cupped Vincent’s face, and his brown eyes went soft. “Look, do you really think you would hurt me? Or are you just afraid because you’ve hurt people in the past?”

“As long as you have known me, can you honestly say that I’m the sort of person who doesn’t know my own limits? My own breaking point?” Vincent demanded, serious. He sighed then, a little of the fire fading from his eyes. “You are the only good thing I have left in my life,” Vincent whispered. He didn’t want to lose Veld, _couldn’t_ lose Veld. It would kill him. If he hurt Veld, or freaked him out too much…would Veld walk away? Would he be here to stay, when he realized that his demons were staying too? When it finally sank in that he wasn’t _human_ anymore? “I have already told you; I will not gamble with your life. I… _can’t_ lose you, Veld.”

Veld pressed a kiss into Vincent’s hair to hide the flicker of pain that crossed his face at that. He had been wrong to say that Vincent _underestimated_ himself. He didn’t _trust_ himself, but he _did_ know his limits, and he didn’t want to imagine the pain it was causing him, to find himself chained by them this way. He hated to see Vincent struggle like this, especially when they’d worked through much the same thing together what seemed like a lifetime ago, when they had both been Turks.

“Okay,” Veld whispered into Vincent’s hair. “Okay. Hey, it’s fine. Now that I know where to look, we’ll have this thing solved in no time, right? We’ll be back together really damn soon, taking parenting classes or some shit. And we’ll work through this just like we did before, together.”

“Veld,” Vincent began, his voice small.

“Oh, shut it, Valentine. What was that shit you said to me one time, about how only gods-damned idiots send away their help when they need it most?”

“I feel as if you may be paraphrasing a bit,” Vincent said with a huff, somewhere between frustration and amusement. But Veld was right. They had always been strongest together.

Later, they lie awake together in the full-sized bed, Vincent’s back pressed against Veld’s chest, Veld holding him close by the waist, not talking, or kissing, or sleeping, or even trying to sleep. Just feeling each other, the familiar, rhythmic way Veld’s chest rose and fell with his breath, the way Vincent’s stomach did the same. Vincent’s hair was a wild snarl around them, tickling Veld’s bare skin where it touched.

“Do you really want that, Veld?” Vincent whispered at last into the darkness. Veld hummed.

“Want what?” he mumbled, breath on the back of Vincent’s neck.

“To be a parent,” Vincent clarified. Veld replayed their earlier conversation, realized that, yeah, he had kind of implied that, hadn’t he? Had he meant it?

“You know I’ve always liked the idea of it,” Veld murmured after a little while. “A house with a yard and a dog and shit, a kid or two, the whole shebang. But I know that’s fucking selfish of me, because even if I weren’t a Turk, weren’t a killer, deep down I’m pretty sure I only want it because I never had that as a kid, and by giving it to someone else I think it might fix me. I know better than that. I’d be a fuck-up of a parent and we both know it.”

“You’re good at talking care of people,” Vincent protested gently. “I think all parents are fuck-ups, you know, even the best of them.” _Grimoire_ …Still, after all of these years, he felt the pang at the loss of his father. Gods know he had tried his best, but he had always been much too concerned with protecting Vincent from himself and not nearly concerned enough about protecting the world from Vincent.

_It hadn’t been subtle, the fact that Vincent was unstable. It had started around the same time he’d hit puberty, the rages, the “blackouts” as Grimoire would eventually come to call them. Vincent supposed it had been hard for his father to accept, the shattering of what had been—even despite the death of his mother—a bright and happy childhood. For a while, it was a problem they could ignore, tantrums he could be talked down from rather quickly. Then Vincent started receiving demerits for storming out of class in fits of anger. It wasn’t long after that the fighting started, almost weekly sometimes. He was one more incident, even one minor infraction, away from being thrown out of academy when he had almost killed a boy in the gymnasium._

_They had been in the middle of free-play time in the gym, and as had become customary of him lately, Vincent was sitting at the top of the bleachers, alone, immersed in a book. This behavior was explicitly against the rules, but their coach never pushed it. Secretly, Vincent thought, the man was probably just relieved that he was keeping himself away from the other children. And from him. The other children were afraid of him. Most of the teachers too. They had rights to be. When Vincent was in a rage, it was like he just…went away, watched from some small corner of his head as he became a living hurricane that wrecked everything in its path._

_But just because Vincent was smart enough to isolate himself in order to avoid conflict, it didn’t mean all of his classmates were wise enough to follow suite. Worse, some of them had learned that if they felt like fighting, Vincent could always be taunted to violence._

_“You really just think you can do whatever the hell you want, don’t you?”_

_Vincent pointedly ignored the voice. Cameron. Even without looking, he recognized the voice. Knew that the older boy was here looking for a fight._

_‘One more infraction, Vincent,’ his father reminded him every day as he dropped him off at school. Every day, Vincent replied ‘I know.’ And he did know. He knew that he couldn’t afford to get into any more trouble, any more fights. He didn’t_ want _to get into any more trouble, didn’t want to get thrown out of school. But Vincent also knew that there was something very, very wrong with him, and that each day, that wrongness grew just a little bit more out of his control. He was_ trying. _Couldn’t they all see that he was trying and leave him alone?_

_He gritted his teeth when Cameron swatted his book of out his hands. He flashed the boy a venomous glare and picked up the volume with trembling fingers, trying to find his page. Again, Cameron knocked it to the floor. Breathing hard now, Vincent looked around for help. Some of his classmates had noticed the altercation, watched them from the bottom of the bleachers, waiting in anticipation like spectators to a show. No one moved to stop it from happening, just kept watching, scavengers sitting by as two predators battle, ready to pick apart the scraps of the loser._

_“Don’t. Touch me. Again,” Vincent warned intensely in a shaking voice. Ten years old, it was still high and sweet, the tenor of childhood. The words were not spoken by a child. They were spoken by a monster caged in a child’s body, being poked at with sticks through its bars. Vincent retrieved his book once more, stood to relocate. Cameron pushed him, a firm shove against his skinny chest that made him bump backwards into the concrete wall behind him. At the very top of the bleachers, they were almost ten meters up in the air, separated from the concrete gym floor below by steep bleachers on one side and a short railing and empty air on the other. Vincent had grabbed Cameron by his collar, shoved him into the wall hard enough to hear the crack his head made against the concrete. Then, without hesitation, Vincent lifted the bigger boy and pitched him over the railing. He was too shocked to even cry out before he hit the pavement below…_

_He was homeschooled after that, but still his father made excuses for him. He was sensitive. Emotional. Troubled. He refused to recognize the madness in his child for what it was. He had been twelve when he had killed the first time, two years later, the event that led to Shinra owning him, the event that led to all of this. Grimoire Valentine had tried so hard to protect his son from his own darkness, but it had only led to him being sucked in by the Shinra, where that darkness was the only thing he had left._

Yes, all parents were fuck-ups.

“Though, I’m almost certain that any child of yours would be barred from the general education setting for their inevitable sailor’s mouth, so I hope you are prepared to be a stay-at-home-father,” Vincent said after a little while, trying to shake his thoughts. Veld snorted.

“Please,” he scoffed. “You would really entrust the rearing of the next generation to a bastard like _me_? Gods, the only other person on the planet I can think of less suited to molding a child into a functioning adult would be…”

“Hojo,” Vincent interrupted in a whisper.

“Well, I was going to say Scarlet, but hell, close enough.” Veld sighed. Vincent had gone silent again, and Veld knew that he was thinking about the boy. Lucrecia’s boy, and how he had no doubt been denied a happy childhood as well. “I mean…we can try to see the bright side of it, at least. I’m pretty sure that we could both be flesh-eating, homicidal maniacs and _still_ be better at raising a child than fucking _Hojo._ So whatever the hell damage we inevitably do, at least it’s a step up.”

“…You said ‘we,’” Vincent observed softly.

“Of course I said ‘we,’ you idiot,” Veld said fondly, threading his fingers through Vincent’s where they rested beneath his pillow. “And seriously, if this kid is out there, after everything’s he’s no doubt been through…He’s not gonna need _normal_ , Vincent. He’s going to need someone who _gets_ him, and who could possibly do that better than you? Who could even do that _other_ than you? You’re the only other person alive who knows what it feels like to be one of Hojo’s twisted science fair projects.” He let out a long sigh and continued.

“So yeah, do I want to be a parent? _I don’t fucking know,_ but if it’s what the kid needs, then I’ll try.”

Vincent squeezed his hand tighter at that.

“Do you think there’s a place out there, Veld, for people like us? All of Shinra’s broken toys? A place where we can be happy?” Vincent asked quietly.

“If there isn’t,” Veld said, nuzzling Vincent’s hair aside to press a kiss to the taller man’s neck, “then we’ll just have to make one.”


	4. Long Forgotten Sons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Midgar, Veld and Tseng discuss Vincent's discovery and find a new lead on Lucrecia's child. Hojo confronts Veld.

"You were wearing the same clothes yesterday,” Tseng observed the next morning, slipping into Veld’s office, balancing two cups of coffee in his hand. “And you’re late.”

Veld glanced down at his clothes. They looked the same as the clothes he wore pretty much every day: navy slacks, white shirt, black tie, navy suit jacket. It wasn’t a required uniform for him, not anymore, but it was what he still felt most comfortable in.

“How can you even tell?” he wondered aloud. Tseng sat his coffee cup down on his desk, locked the door, and settled into the chair across from him, comfortably crossing left ankle over right knee. He took a moment before answering, fishing around in the inner pocket of his jacket for a second before pulling out a small electronic device and setting it on the table. He extended an antenna from the center of it, flipped it on. Absolutely nothing seemed to happen.

“It’s a device I’ve been fiddling with,“ Tseng replied, answering Veld’s unasked question first. “’It’s a low-powered EMP device; should scramble any potential bugs in the room. Also, you spilled coffee on your collar yesterday,” Tseng observed. Veld looked down, and there it was, the tale-tell coffee stain on the collar of his starched white shirt, barely perceptible. He sighed. It was annoying as hell sometimes, working around other people in his profession. They always caught on to too damn much.

“I spent the night with Vincent,” he confessed, and Tseng gave a little smirk, suspecting that, but glad to hear Veld admit it without any great manner of trepidation or hesitance.

“Did you manage to squeeze in a few moments to go over those documents?” Tseng asked sarcastically with a meaningful look. Once, the thought of a colleague casually joking about him in bed with a boyfriend would have mortified him, but now with Tseng…It was different. The kid had a way of making it feel _normal_ , their being together. Just another in-office fling worthy of lighthearted taunting. He almost...liked it in a way. 

“We got through the first file,” Veld began, pausing a little when Tseng rolled his eyes playfully, “after which there was really no need to continue because Vincent Valentine is a brilliant motherfucker who knows too damn much and keeps too many secrets, and he realized where the kid would be immediately through a combination of all those frequently-infuriating traits."

“And where is that?” Tseng asked, arching an eyebrow.

“You sure that thing works?” Veld asked, gesturing towards the jammer device on the table.

“Positive,” Tseng replied. Veld nodded at that, trusting the assurance implicitly. If Tseng said something he had invented worked, it worked. There was no need to do any further testing; the kid had no doubt already done more than enough himself.

“Vincent thinks the kid will be in SOLDIER,” Veld confided. “Says that the boy was the start of the program, of the Mako and genetic enhancements."

“The boy would be what, thirteen?” Tseng verified. Veld gave a nod of confirmation. “Then he is too young to live in the barracks at Shinra. Likely they’ve placed him in a nearby boarding school, especially if the child has been here since birth. No one in the company is qualified or fit to raise a child, so they pay others to.”

“…How do you know that?” Veld asked quietly, only half-wanting to know the answer. As a general rule, Turks didn't talk about their childhoods, not the bad parts. At least, not unless they were under the influence of something, the pain of those memories dulled through a fog of substance abuse. They all learned little things about where each of them came from, basic information, usually; where they had been and why they were with Shinra now instead, but in general that was all. Partners were sometimes an exception, but you still didn't ask. If your partner wanted to tell you, they would. Tseng didn't talk about his childhood. Not at all.

“Because that’s where they put me,” Tseng explained. “I was only nine when they brought me in, remember? I needed to be fed, clothed, educated, socialized, disciplined. No one at Shinra was going to do that. I wasn’t the only kid there owned by the company, either. There were quite a few of us—bound to wind up as Shinra scientists or Security Officers or Turks or whatever else the company needed us to be. No doubt they’re doing the same with kids that might be suited to SOLDIER.”

“Do you know if there’s more than one boarding school that holds kids for Shinra?” Veld asked. Tseng shook his head.

“No, but finding out shouldn’t be difficult, not now that we know what we’re looking for. Your access codes should get you into all department expense reports without triggering a flag. Here,” he stood and shooed Veld out of his seat, taking over the computer at his desk. After a moment, he gestured for Veld to type in his passcode. Tseng’s slender fingers flew across his keyboard with blinding speed, a reminder of his past. Veld felt useless just standing there, waiting for the kid to work his magic and find exactly what they were looking for.

“I’m grabbing more coffee. I’ll get you one too,” he said, buttoning his suit jacket as he stood. Tseng gave a curt nod, not glancing up at him. When Veld returned from the breakroom a few minutes later, carrying two fresh cups of coffee and a tea saucer piled high with blueberry scones, Tseng promptly presented him a print out of all of the boarding schools Shinra paid tuition to.

“Here you go, b—” Tseng trailed off, eyes lighting up like a kid at Midwinter. “Are those scones for me?”

Veld just laughed, passing him his cup of coffee and the saucer without answering. Tseng would never request them, would never get them for himself, but Veld knew blueberry scones were his weakness. He was like a child with those things, entirely too giddy over them for a grown man who killed and brutalized people for a living. Veld adored it. Tseng traded Veld the list for his plateful of treats, and Veld skimmed it. It was a list of all of the boarding schools that Shinra had held children at over the past thirteen years. There were only four of them, and one was an all-girl’s school. There was a primary school as well, but the boy would have been too old now to attend. The other one—the school Tseng had attended as a child—hadn’t taken money from Shinra for half a decade. That left them with only one real viable option, a boarding school only a block away from the Shinra Building. 

Veld had Tseng use a dummy email to send the school a request for a private tour, posing as a father who was considering sending his son there. The school responded later that day, setting up an appointment for the following Monday. Veld sighed in frustration as he confirmed the appointment and trashed the email address. He wanted this over and done with as quickly as possible. He needed answers one way or another about whether or not this child was even alive, and the thought of waiting so long felt like agony.

“You could always try the facilities where they train the SOLDIER candidates as well,” Tseng suggested. “If Shinra’s been raising the kid since birth to be a weapon, I’m sure they’re already started training him.”

Veld nodded at that. It was a slim chance, probably. It was just as likely they were training the kid privately, but at least it gave him something to do that at least _felt_ like moving forward.

It was an unusually quiet day at the office, and he called it an early night, telling everyone to get the hell out, take an early weekend, and not talk to him unless there were lives on the line until Monday. Instead of going home, however, he swung by the SOLDIER training grounds. The place was pretty heavily guarded, but only by Security Officers who moved aside when they saw Veld’s ID badge. With the access afford to him by the reputation of the Turks, Veld was able to take up a spot on a glassed-in observation deck elevated just high enough above the training grounds to see all of it at once. A pair of tower binoculars stood nearby, and he squinted through one to get a better view of individual recruits.

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. He had never met Lucrecia, so he couldn’t look for resemblance there, and it was impossible to imagine Hojo as a child, or even a young man, which made identifying any features a kid might have in common with him a challenge too. Just…something that stood out, he supposed.

“What do you think you are doing here exactly?” a familiar voice poured out like an oil slick, thick and greasy.

Stiffening, Veld turned to face Hojo. Vincent had warned him to be careful of this man, reminded Veld that he was capable of creating immortal super-soldiers, and that the chances he hadn’t dipped into his own stash were slim. But nevertheless, Hojo only seemed to grow more stooped and grotesque each time Veld saw him. He knew that he should probably say something, find some excuse to be here, but he couldn’t make himself open his mouth, couldn’t talk through the knot of rage in his throat. He turned back towards the recruits, pointedly ignoring the scientist.

“Ah, I see,” Hojo observed. “You’ve come here to witness your replacements. I’m afraid you’ve come at the wrong time; the whelps are scuffling right now, but you should stop by again tomorrow, say around two? I would love to see the look on your face when you witness a real SOLDIER for the first time and realize that you’re obsolete.”

“That’s what you think is gonna happen, huh?” Veld drew a cigarette from the case in his pocket, lit it. “See, you lab geek types just don’t get it, do you? The world is run by people like me—”

“Boars?” Hojo scoffed. Veld’s smile grew sharp, and his brown eyes glinted.

“Clever people. Pragmatic people. Ruthless people. People who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty.” Veld lazily blew smoke into Hojo’s face. “You can have as many super-soldiers as you want, Hojo, but my Turks, my people—people like me—the company will always need us. Soldiers are good at taking orders, little wind-up dolls—tighten their springs and watch them march off where you send them. Turks are good at getting shit done.” He flicked his cigarette butt to the floor, ground it out beneath his shoe. Hojo just smiled—a cold, gruesome thing.

“Clever and pragmatic like Valentine?” he sneered sarcastically.

Veld had him by the collar of his lab coat before he even realized it, breath coming in hard, hands shaking. Is this how Vincent felt, when his demons were trying to take over? This mindless need to kill? He wanted to slam Hojo's head against a wall until he wasn't recognizable anymore. 

“Don’t you _fucking_ say his name,” he snarled, shoving the man back with force. Hojo stumbled back, caught himself on the wall nearby, brushed off his labcoat as he straightened. He gave a breathy chuckle.

“Why? Was he _important_ to you?” Hojo’s eyes flashed, and this time it was him crowding into Veld’s space, straightening his crooked spine to sneer words into his ear. “Did you love him, dog? The way I loved my Lucrecia?”

“The fuck does your failed marriage have to do with Vincent?” Veld didn’t know why he was biting, why he hadn’t just walked away as soon as Hojo had approached. Hojo snarled at that, actually snarled, baring his teeth, face contorted beyond recognition.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t know he was fucking her,” he spat. “Just like I won’t pretend I didn’t know he was fucking you. Little whore ruined both of our lives, it seems.”

Veld hadn’t known that _Hojo_ knew Vincent had been fucking her. Suddenly, it all made so much more sense. Everything he had done to Vincent...It wasn’t an attempt to cover up what he was doing, wasn’t punishment for speaking out against experimenting on an unborn child that spurred this mad scientist on when Hojo had made the decision to shoot the man Veld loved. It wasn’t an excessive, wanton cruelty that prodded him to take Vincent apart, piece by piece by piece, and sew him back together like a patchwork doll. Break his body. Destroy his mind. It was _revenge_.

Hojo got his revenge. But now, Veld thought, it was fast approaching the time when he could take a little revenge of his own. Right now, he settled for spitting in the man’s face and turning on heel, walking unhurriedly from the training grounds.


	5. Truth, Be Told

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veld investigates the boarding school where he and Tseng think Shinra is keeping Lucrecia's child. Veld finally meets Sephiroth, and uncovers more secrets than he was ready to learn.

Veld hadn’t worn his navy suit to work today. Today, he had dressed in khaki-colored trousers and a navy blazer and ditched his tie entirely. Immediately after work, he would walk the block to the boarding school for his tour, and the last thing he wanted to look like was someone from Shinra. On the walk over, he mussed his hair up a bit more than usual and slipped a pair of false glasses out of his shirt pocket, slipping them on. By the time he rang the buzzer at the front gates of the boarding school, there was nothing threatening about him. He looked like he worked a desk job, some pencil pusher with soft hands who would hold down the same nine-to-five until he died a slow, boring, painful death of old age.

He looked like someone’s dad. Which was good, considering that was exactly what he was pretending to be—someone’s dad. A _teenager’s_ dad, the dad of a kid old enough to be in _secondary school_. He still wondered sometimes, when the fuck he’d gotten so old.

“Good afternoon.”

A feminine voice greeted Veld warmly, interrupting him from his thoughts. He glanced up to see an elegant woman dressed in a neat gray skirt-suit. She was probably around his age, but she wore her years well, the silver simply adding depth to her blond hair, the crow’s feet that crinkled lightly around her eyes when she smiled endearing. The tidy suit she wore fit her trim frame well. She stopped in front of him, extended her hand for him to shake.

“You must be Mr. Garner,” she said in cordially in the same tone. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh please, call me Huxley,” Veld said with a smile, taking her hand and shaking it firmly.

“My name is Theodora,” she informed him. “I will be conducting your tour of our campus today. You can follow me.” She waved Veld on and began to walk back towards the immense schoolhouse. “As I am sure you are already aware, we are an extremely prestigious institution focused into developing children into well-rounded and well-educated adults. We have an extremely broad range of extracurricular activities, but unfortunately only so much time, so before we get started, is there in area in particular in which your son is particularly gifted or holds a special interest?”

“Music,” Veld said, the reply coming automatically, without thought, and why the hell had that answer come so fast? He gave an internal sigh when he asked himself the question. Like he didn’t know.

 _They were sweeping an abandoned church below the plate in Sector 3, following up on reports that the syndicate had been using it has a base of operations, running drugs out of the hallowed ground. The church had turned out to_ actually _be abandoned, the rumors utter bullshit, and it had taken them all of five minutes at the scene to realize that. But hey, they’d come all the way out here, and they might as well take their time. No reason to rush back to Shinra only to sit around in the breakroom or lounge around the office hoping something got bloody somewhere before they died of boredom._

_Veld would never forget the look on Vincent’s face when he saw the piano, standing at the front of the church, appearing astonishingly intact and undamaged, considering the state the rest of the place was in. He looked like a child whose favorite toy had been returned to them after they were sure they had lost it for good, like someone being reunited with a beloved pet._

_“You know how to play?” Veld asked curiously._

_Vincent didn’t reply, just moved towards the piano as if he were sleepwalking. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he slid open the lid, dreading the worst, but the keys inside looked straight and whole, if a bit dusty. Absently, he slipped the glove off his right hand before reaching out and trailing his fingers up the scale one by one. It was a little out of tune, but not badly. He took his other glove off, draped his blazer across the back of the piano, pushed his sleeves up, and sank down gracefully onto the piano bench. And then Vincent had just sat there for a moment, as if in disbelief, but then hands rose to rest lightly on the keys, and he began to play. Veld just watched in wonder as Vincent’s long, slender fingers danced effortlessly across the keys, sad, sweet music filling the empty cathedral._

_And Veld was enraptured by it, by him, drawn in slowly like a moth to flame. Vincent swayed as he played, his body moving to the cadence of the music in that effortlessly graceful way of his. He played with his eyes closed, face tilted towards the sunlight streaming in from a hole in the roof overhead, bathing his pallor in golden light._

_Veld had liked Vincent the first day he’d really met him in the breakroom at Shinra. He had grown to admire Vincent on their first day working together. Now, as his partner, he trusted him, looked out for him, confided in him, cared for him._

_But if someone had asked him, he would have said that it was that day in the church, watching Vincent play piano among the crumbing ruins of the gods, that Veld fell in love with Vincent Valentine._

“He plays piano,” Veld added quietly, because if he really had a hypothetical child he was considering sending to this academy, he would want that child to play piano, and of course, in his imagination, it only seemed inevitable that any son of his would be musical, because any child of his would also be a child of Vincent’s. Oh, damn, so he _had_ thought about this, subconsciously, at least.

“We have an excellent music program here,” Theodora informed him happily. “Is there anything else?”

“His mother is a scientist,” he said after a moment, with a bit less sincerity, though this time he knew he spoke the truth. “She would like it, probably, if he studied it.”

“How marvelous,” Theodora cooed. “Such diverse interests already. Right this way, Mr. Garner.”

Veld followed the woman through the expansive entrance hall, the click of her heels echoing sharply across the tiled floors. The building looked drab on the outside, but the inside was sparkling clean and opulent, granite walls and vaulted ceilings, marble flagstone on the floors.

“Hey, uh, is it all right if I take some photos for the missus?” Veld asked as he caught up to her, pulling a polaroid camera from his bag. There was still the issue of him having literally no idea whatsoever what the kid he was looking for even looked like. Pictures might help him identify the kid later if he missed something now.

“Of course,” Theodora assured warmly. So Veld followed her as she walked him down the opulent corridors of the boarding school. “First thing is first, I will go ahead and show you the student dormitories while the children are still in the mess hall for dinner. We offer both shared spaces with bunk beds and private rooms in order to accommodate a wider range of financial situations and personal preferences. Meals are, of course, provided in the mess hall three times a day. Children take academic classes until lunchtime, then focus on their extracurricular activities in the afternoon. We try to ensure a safe and structured environment in order to allow our children to thrive…”

Veld tried to pay keep his attention on Theodora as she talked, but his mind kept wandering, his focus drawn in too many directions at once. He studied the face of each child carefully as they stopped to look in on classes that were in session, and he clicked the shutter button of his camera liberally. The tour was incredibly long, something Veld was glad for. At least if he didn’t find what he was looking for today, he knew the layout if he had to come back more covertly.

“And here it is, Mr. Garner, the much-awaited music room.”

Veld snapped back to attention at Theodora’s words, some strange, unexpected quiver of anxiety turning his stomach as she reached out and opened the door to the music room. The space was open and airy, a skylight letting in the golden light of the setting sun. Instruments were displayed with care around the room, resting on stands or hanging on racks. Someone was playing the piano.

_A_ _boy,_ Veld realized as they crept quietly further into the room, slight and tall, dressed in black. His hair streamed down his back like liquid mercury, unnaturally silver, coming to a stop just below his shoulder blades. He was lost in his music, utterly. Veld could tell. He’d seen it before—head tilted skyward, body swaying gently to the beat, moving with a fluid, effortless grace. He expected, when he finally moved around to the side enough to see the kid’s face, that his eyes would be closed in rapture, and he was right. But he hadn’t expected…

 _Oh fuck_ , Veld thought numbly. He managed, barely, to raise the camera in his shaking hands and click the shutter button. The kid’s head snapped up at the sound, eyes opening and honing in immediately on Veld with intensity. And those eyes were mako-green, but there was no fucking mistaking it.

They were _Vincent’s_.

They were Vincent’s the same way that long, fine nose was Vincent’s, the way his full, serious mouth was.

Oh _fuck_.

“Oh, Sephiroth!” Theodora exclaimed apologetically to the teen. “My sincere apologies. I hadn’t realized anyone was using he music room. I’m so sorry for disturbing you. We’ll be out of your way now.”

Even through the haze of his shock, Veld registered the hint of fear in Theodora’s tone as she spoke to the child. The boy just nodded, though, keeping his eyes on Veld.

“Why are you looking at me that way?” the child, Sephiroth, asked bluntly, and the kid’s voice rolled out low and velvet.

“I’m sorry,” Veld said, dropping his persona for a moment. “You just remind me very much of someone I care for deeply,” he explained, truthfully. The boy nodded again, just once.

“Is that why you took a picture of me?” he prompted, tone just as blunt.

A little lump grew in Veld’s throat, and he tried to decide what he was going to do if the child demanded Veld give the photo to him. He couldn’t just fist-fight a child over a photograph; and besides, he had a vague suspicion said child might be able to kick his ass anyway. Luckily, Sephiroth just nodded and turned his back on them once more, and Theodora ushered him hurriedly from the room. She seemed nearly as flustered as he was, and the tour was cut short in unspoken agreement after they left the music room. Theodora bid good day to “Mr. Garner” before closing the great front doors behind Veld, ushering him out into the night.

His hands were still shaking, he noticed as he drew a cigarette and struggled to light it in the wind. He bypassed the metro he usually took after work, deciding to walk home tonight. He needed the time to think.

The boy, Sephiroth, was _not_ Lucrecia and Hojo’s child. _He was Lucrecia and Vincent’s_. The fact kept tumbling around and around in his head, like clothes in the dryer at a laundromat, over and over. In an attempt to quiet his mind Veld made it halfway home, stopped at a bar, got slowly and thoroughly shitfaced while brooding alone in a corner.

He had never lingered on it, really, whatever had happened between Lucrecia and Vincent. It seemed there had never been a time to. Despite Hojo’s accusations about him knowing the whole time, he had only found out about the two of them after Vincent went missing and was presumed dead. Vincent had left a confessional for him, pages upon pages of letters he had written over the course of his time in Nibelheim but never sent, never planned to send, just penned and kept somewhere safe for Veld to find in case in never had a chance to say those things in person.

Had it hurt, at the time, learning that Vincent had been sleeping with someone else? Sure, but it was nothing in comparison to the absolute fucking _agony_ of losing him, and whatever anger or resentment Veld may have felt was quickly buried in his grief. In the years since, he had simply chosen not to dwell on it. At the time, it hadn’t mattered. It wouldn’t change anything. At the end of the day, Vincent would still be dead, and Veld would still love him, so why torture himself? He hadn’t thought what had happened between his partner and the Shinra scientist would ever be relevant again.

But they had a _child_.

 _No_ , Veld thought to himself, fist tightening around his glass so hard he almost broke it, _The_ Shinra _had their child. Vincent’s child. His actual, flesh and blood offspring. And fuck, this_ still _wasn’t the time to dwell on this, was it?_

He needed to get a letter to Vincent, and decide as he waited for a response how the hell he was going to tell his partner that he had a son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, I choose to buy into the fan theory that Vincent is actually Sephiroth's dad.


	6. Don't You Ever Tame Your Demons, But Always Keep 'em On a Leash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After some unforeseen danger arises when Vincent leaves Nibelheim to rendevous with Veld, Vincent and Galian Beast are forced to cooperate. Vincent and his inner demon have come to an uneasy truce. But can they come to an understanding?

Vincent was sitting on the roof of the Shinra Mansion, basking in the moonlight as he read over Veld’s latest letter. Whatever Hojo had done to him made his eyes more than sensitive enough to read in the dark, but even without his enhanced vision, he probably would have been able to decipher it in the bright light of the moon after his eyes had a chance to adjust. The sky was clear above Nibelheim tonight, and the moon was growing close to full. Veld’s latest letter wasn’t even a letter, really, just a time and location—an address to a hotel in Costa del Sol and a date and time a little less than a week from now—followed by the words “Need to see you,” and “Urgent.”

Vincent sighed, tucked the note into his cloak pocket. It would take a while to get to Costa del Sol on foot, and he still didn’t trust himself enough to accost strangers for rides. He also sorely doubted that anyone would pick him up anyway, looking like he did. He had kept the clothes that Veld had bought for him when they had last spent the night together, but rarely wore anything other than the worn-in leathers and tattered cloak he’d grown accustomed to during his years in that casket. They held up better on the road.

He slept under the stars most nights, reluctant to stay the night in the Shinra Mansion and unable to find another place he could even pretend to belong. He found himself drifting through the forests around Nibelheim like a predator surveying its territory, returning to the mansion once a week or so to shower and check for mail before beginning his next patrol.

It was a routine, Vincent was surprised to realize, that Galian Beast found himself incredibly content with. The pacing seemed to soothe some instinctive desire the monster possessed, and his usually restless presence in Vincent’s mind calmed for a while, occasionally even going as far as _cooperation_ at times—warning him of incoming storms in time to find them shelter, correcting his path on the rare occasion he strayed from the course. Slowly, he began to understand the creature. It was animalistic, but not necessarily malicious, and it was trapped with Vincent even more than Vincent was trapped with it. Vincent still had his bodily autonomy, for the most part at least.

The creature seemed to sense the growing sympathy Vincent had for it, and recently it had renewed its pleas to be temporarily handed the reigns, so Vincent wasn’t surprised when Galian interrupted his moonlight vigil. Vincent _was_ , however, surprised to find himself listening.

“What do you want?” he whispered aloud, speaking to Galian.

Galian replied in images and feelings— _the beauty of the moonlit forest through his strange colorless vision, the feel of his body moving beneath him, running, fast and smooth and powerful, earth beneath his feet, wind against his fur, blood on his tongue…_

“ _No_ ,” Vincent growled firmly. Galian growled back, and Vincent sensed something almost… _accusatory_ in that noise. Was he angry because Vincent was allowed to kill and he wasn’t? “I don’t trust you yet,” he continued aloud. “There is a time and a place to kill, and I will not give you a license to do so until I am sure you can decipher one from the other.”

The monster’s growl settled to a low rumble, an apparent grumble of reluctant consent. Vincent’s hand, the human one, was trembling. Was he really considering this? Was he really considering willingly surrendering control of his body to Galian? He took a few deep breaths, stilled his mind, and thought it through one more time.

“You will not kill without my explicit direction,” Vincent growled lowly. A rumble of agreement from Galian, more amicable this time.

It felt alien and uncomfortable and vaguely terrifying to consciously surrender control of his body to an entity he had fought so hard against for so long. The transformation was almost painless this time, a bare shadow of the agony that usually accompanied the change when his demons ripped control from him. It took a tremendous amount of self-control to settle passively into a corner of his own mind. He almost lost it when he couldn’t even use his breathing technique to meditate because he was no longer in control of his lungs.

He counted instead, and when his mind finally stopped racing, he sat back and just allowed himself to… _enjoy_ it, the feeling of the ground flying by beneath him, the wind in his hair. For an hour or so, he simply let the beast run wild, but then he nudged Galian gently in the direction of Costa del Sol. The demon didn’t complain, not caring where it ran, so long as it was running. After a while, the beast began to tire, slowing to a loping trot before pausing by a stream and lapping water greedily. After that, Galian stretched and just…surrendered, granting Vincent his body back without a fight.

He was less sore than he usually was, when his form finally shrank back into his own, the exhaustion in his muscles an almost pleasant feeling, the sort of satisfying burn a person might feel after a few particularly good bouts of hard sparring. He had left the mansion without any supplies for the road, but it didn’t matter, not really. He didn’t actually need to eat, after all, and though the weather was quickly shifting towards fall, it was mild enough now. Veld would be irate with him, perhaps, for turning up Costa del Sol looking so conspicuous, but it wouldn’t be the first time Veld was irritated with him. He would survive it.

He checked his weapons before settling in, ensured his guns were cleaned and loaded. When he was satisfied that everything was in working order, he curled up in the folds of his scarlet cloak like it was a sleeping bag. It felt…wrong, still, sleeping outside, beneath the stars. Even large bedrooms seemed alien. He supposed sleeping for thirteen years in a coffin might do that.

Nevertheless, for the first time in a long while, his thoughts were absent of any voice that wasn’t his own. He was… _alone_ inside his own mind, so he decided to dare sleep despite the vague unease he felt at sleeping beneath the vastness of the sky. He fell asleep with surprising ease, pleasantly tired from his run through the forest as Galian, looking forward, for once—to seeing Veld again, to whatever news he had to share—rather than brooding on the past.

It made the sudden dark turn of his dreams all the more unexpected. Galian’s presence suddenly battered forth into his consciousness, unrelenting. Images flashed through his head, rendered in the monster’s sharp, colorless vision—the image of his own body torn to shreds, slumped in a pool of black blood. Monsters—Nibel wolves and kyuvilduns—swarmed him, flitting in and out, pulling off strips of his flesh before darting away again.

The adrenaline hit his system like a drug, and he jolted upright as his heart began to race, looking around immediately. For once, the feeling of dread clawing at his gut only _grew_ as he escaped his nightmare.

Flashes of the slaughter from Galian again, no different here in his waking mind than when he had been asleep. It wasn’t a nightmare, then, he realized. It was a warning. He took Cerberus from the holster at his hip, checked the chamber again. There was danger approaching.

Vincent took quick stock of his bearings. He was in a forest somewhere between Nibelheim and North Corel, miles from anything remotely resembling civilization, and he viewed that both as a blessing and a curse. At least there was no one nearby who might stumble into harm’s way, but it also meant that he was much too far from anyone to hope for aid, either in the fight or in case he needed to be patched up after it. He had no healing items; no bandages, no potions, nothing. He was fairly certain that he couldn’t die now, but that didn’t mean getting torn to shreds wouldn’t hurt like hell, and he couldn’t promise he would be back on his feet in time to meet Veld in Costa del Sol.

He could only hope that whatever was coming wasn’t more than he could handle. At least the clearing Galian had stopped to rest in for the night was a suitable battleground—large enough that he couldn’t be snuck up on, but small enough to be defensible, the wide creek behind him offering some form of barrier on one side of him. With his enhanced vision, the moonlight piercing through the canopy of branches overhead was more than enough light to fight in.

Bats swept in first, not the usual variety, but the ungodly big monstrosities that lingered around the Shinra Mansion. Cerberus made short work of them despite their quickness. Vincent could hear the distinctive rustle of insect legs in the nearby underbrush in the brief silence that followed his last round of gunfire. Kyuvilduns, most certainly. He could think of few other possibilities in this region. Sure enough, a pack of them emerged into the clearing a moment later, the chitin of their exoskeletons emerald green, even in the silver moonlight.

This was more of a problem. He didn’t have any materia, hadn’t even bothered trying to find any since he’d woken from his sleep at the Shinra Mansion, just his gun. Though Cerberus had more than enough firepower to crack through their hard outer shells, there was no one spot that was a guaranteed kill. In that irritating way so many insects had, they seemed to be in possession of more than one copy of most vital organs. He shot to debilitate, then, not to kill—aiming at joints and eyes. It took longer than he would have liked, and before he knew it, a pair of the giant insects were on him, razor-sharp legs rending flesh. His gauntleted hand made quick, messy work of the creatures, but not before they wounded him.

Nibel wolves howled nearby, quickly approaching, and _fuck_ what had he done to enrage every predator in the entire region like this? Was it just the presence of something as powerful as Vincent, as the entities he carried inside him, in their territory that drew them?

Galian stirred, restless, pleading, ready for violence. Internally, Vincent swore. He had no other choice. They were far from civilization, anyway. There was unlikely to be anyone nearby the beast might hurt, even if Vincent did completely lose control of himself. So, for the second time today, Vincent just surrendered.

The shift was nearly instantaneous this time—one moment a man, pale and bleeding, the next moment a beast, roaring with bloodlust and delight. It would have been so easy for Vincent to lose himself here, in the red haze of carnage being wrought by Galian, by _himself_. This part of the monster… _called_ to him in a way he didn’t like to admit. Like it or not, though, Vincent knew he had found a kindred spirit within the beast. Creatures of blood and violence, they were, the both of them.

And it was torture, being relegated to the position of a spectator as Galian took delight in the kill. It wasn’t enough, the dim connection Vincent shared to his body when the beast was in control of it. He needed to _feel_ it, fully.

The temptation, finally, was too much. He sank deeper within himself, and touched his mind to Galian’s, not in order to assert control, but simply to experience what the beast could feel.

Flesh rending under claws, bones shattering beneath teeth. Blood, heady in the air, warm on his tongue, satisfying as it settled in his belly. Together, they growled a low hum of delight as they awaited the next wave of monsters.

Vincent’s delight turned suddenly to dread at a familiar roar, accompanied by the distant sound of something large crashing loudly through the trees. A Bagnadrana. Brilliant. Exactly what they needed, a giant monster immune to fire. It wasn’t as if Vincent was currently in the form of a monster that relied heavily on fire attacks, or anything, he mused, sarcastic and sour.

Galian sensed his dismay and prodded him for an explanation. Vincent tried his best to convey their problem in simple terms— _Fire will not harm it_. Galian gave a flex of claws, and Vincent—well, Vincent didn’t shake his head, because he _couldn’t_ , but he did the telepathic equivalent, sending Galian the feeling of disappointed helplessness.

Galian was an animal. He fought like an animal. The Bagnadrana was bigger and stronger than they were, and without skill a beast-like Galian could never possess, there was no hope. The only way they might be able to win was if he was somehow capable of using his own fighting skills and Galian’s body, but that would mean…that would mean melding his mind fully with the monster’s, allowing them, at least for a little while, to share a consciousness. Even if the beast agreed to it, did he _want_ that?

Even during his own childhood “blackouts,” the times Vincent had lost himself to the dark, violent madness in his head, he had looked on as a passenger, unable to really feel his own body. Did he _want_ to know how it felt to surrender every piece of himself, body and mind, wholly to the dark? Did he think he would ever actually come back from it? Would he ever be able to give that feeling up?

The Bagnadrana roared again, and Vincent realized that it didn’t matter, really. There was no choice. This was the only way. He proposed the idea to Galian in images, in feelings, in words Vincent thought the beast might understand. He continued until he was sure the monster comprehended.

_Together_? Vincent prompted.

**_Together_** , Galian rumbled in affirmation.

It was even more difficult than willingly surrendering control of his body had been, breaking down the walls he’d worked so hard to construct between himself and the hellspawn in his mind. When he finished, there was hardly a line anymore, between where he ended and Galian began. It was as terrifying as it was exhilarating.

Together, they fought the Bagnadrana, Vincent’s skill behind Galian’s strength. When it was over, and the blood of the creature dripped from their maw, the two of them roared together in victory. Staggering slightly, wounded and exhausted, they made their way to the nearby stream. For a moment, they froze—or rather, _Vincent_ froze, and Galian did not fight him—and looked down at their reflection.

It wasn’t the first time Vincent had seen the beast before. The first day he’d woken up in Hojo’s labs, the creature had pounded on the mirrored side of the two-way glass, and though Vincent had no control of his body at the time, he remembered it. He remembered Galian’s reflection, had been haunted the sight of those dull, brutish eyes staring back at him from a monster’s face and the knowledge that he was somewhere behind them. There had been nothing of himself in the creature.

But now, in the water, Vincent could recognize his own gaze behind Galian’s yellow eyes, an intelligence there that the beast had previously lacked. Vincent reached out and touched their reflection in the water, causing ripples to distort the water’s surface. For a moment, the reflection in the water wavered before solidifying again, purplish fur over a hulking, brutish frame, blood dripping wet and red from a razor-fanged maw. A mane as scarlet as the tattered cloak still wrapped around the creature’s waist framed its face. Horns sprouted above the brow, and they were the first thing to touch the water as they leaned closer.

This was _his_ body, _their_ body. This was part of him. Vincent found that he felt less horror at that than he once had.

When Vincent was finished looking, Galian took a long, deep drink from the stream. The cool water tasted delicious, just like the blood. The beast gave a satisfied rumble when he finished, stretching and collapsing into a boneless mass on the forest floor, contented and exhausted. It only took a surprisingly gentle prod for the creature to give him back control, and when Vincent shifted back into his own body, he took a moment to survey the damage they had taken in the fight. He was so drenched in blood that it was difficult to tell what blood belonged to him and what blood belonged to the creatures dying and dead around him. With a sigh, he stripped down and settled into the shocking cold of the stream long enough to wash the blood away. As he dried again on the bank, he was glad to realize that his own injuries were superficial wounds, mostly, and though a few of the cuts were deeper, they would heal on their own soon enough.

Once his clothes were dry, he redressed with a sigh and moved on, no desire to linger near the stench of the carnage they had wrought in the night. He stopped again when the sun had crested the horizon, resting near the stream he’d been following since he set out the night before. He was still exhausted, and so was Galian. He would likely need the beast again if he wanted to get to Costa del Sol on time, so he decided to give them both a break. He caught a fish in the nearby stream, spearing it on one of the razored claws of his gauntlet, and after scaling the thing (with a knife held in his human hand, because the other one wasn’t coordinated enough for that anymore, and he was right-handed besides), he cooked it over the fire he’d started (not with magic, but with flint and steel, because even if he’d had a fire materia it always seemed to make food and tea cooked over fires started with it taste like shit). He ate slowly, not necessarily fond of the vague mud-and-river-water flavor of the fish, especially absent any butter or spices to dress it up a bit. Nevertheless, it would help him heal and rejuvenate just a bit faster.

As he cooked and ate, he became aware of Galian’s presence in his head, just watching him in silence. When Vincent had finished eating and was resting comfortably against a large rock near the stream, he decided to address the creature, trying to mentally convey to it his gratitude towards it for cooperating with him. The beast rumbled back, warmly.

“Did you enjoy that last night?” Vincent asked aloud. “The fight? The run?” Silently, he repeated the question in images, in emotions.

**_Yes,_** it affirmed ardently.

“As did I,” Vincent admitted, and there wasn’t even a hint of a lie in the words. “We can continue this, working together. I get my peace of mind, you get a taste of freedom.”

The monster rallied at the word _taste_ , and it assaulted Vincent’s senses with every memory of taste, of touch, of feeling it could conjure, accompanied by a pang of yearning. After that, the world Galian showed him became an oppressive void, dark and hollow, trapped with only his own thoughts for company.

And the pain the beast felt stirred something in Vincent because he _understood_ , he understood what it was like to be a passenger in his own body, to feel detached from his senses, from the world. It wasn’t a good feeling. On top of that, Vincent had grown so good at keeping his inner demons caged that the confinement had become almost literal for them, trapped in darkness with only their own minds for company, unable to access Vincent at all, and therefore, unable to access Vincent’s world. To let the others do so would be recklessness, but Galian…Galian could be reasoned with, bargained with. He could be an ally, a source of strength.

“I will try,” was all Vincent said, because he couldn’t promise, but it seemed to satiate the beast, at least for now. He kept the walls between them largely down as he lounged about their resting place, allowing Galian to feel the warmth of the late-summer sunlight, to smell the scents wafting to them on the breeze. The creature stayed quiet, content simply to observe, and Vincent found their strange, shared silence almost…companionable.

Later, when they had rested and healed enough to travel, Galian nudged at him, and Vincent allowed the shift. Galian took a long drink of water, and they were off, running in the direction Vincent steered them. Vincent had been present the last time Galian ran like this, but present the way a passenger might be. This time, he _was_ Galian as the beast ran, and he felt the strength and power in each corded muscle, the heat of his dense fur, the way his clawed feet scoured the earth beneath them. It was such a joy to both of them that it was dark before they stopped again, pausing in a wide field of wildflowers for the night. Galian paced a few tight circles, like a cat trying to find a comfortable position, before settling down. When Vincent shifted back, he realized the monster had flattened the flowers in a circle around them just wide enough for a campsite, and he gave a breathy chuckle. How… _considerate_?

He glanced up briefly at the sky, used the stars to gauge their vague location, and realized with some surprise that they would actually arrive in Costa del Sol a day or two early at this rate. Good. Maybe he could pick up some clothes boring enough to get Veld off his back, take a long shower, sleep in a real bed…

Vincent settled down on his cloak beneath the stars, but as he attempted to fold himself into the garment, Galian tugged against him, pleading. Vincent paused. Understood. He wanted to see. He rolled back over and crossed his arms behind his head, allowing the beast to stare at the starry sky through his enhanced eyes, no doubt seeing the night for the first time in color. The monster was too in awe of the view above them for Vincent to feel uncomfortable beneath the open sky, so for the first time since he’d left his casket in Shinra Mansion, he used the excess fabric of his cloak as a pillow and kept his eyes tilted skyward, studying the stars until sleep found him.


	7. Bright Lights Cast a Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent and Veld meet in Costa del Sol to discuss Veld's recent discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LIttle bit of a short chapter here, but this seemed like a decent place to pause. A follow-up will probably be up later tonight or tomorrow.

When Veld arrived at the inn in Costa del Sol, Vincent was waiting for him, standing in the shadows near the doorway of the hotel, his eyes as red as the cherry of the cigarette he burned in the darkness. He held up something Veld vaguely identified as a room key in the gloom. Veld shook his head, cast his partner a fond smile.

“Do you just _try_ to brood seductively in the shadows like a fucking vampire in some girly romance novel?” Veld teased as he approached, but the taunt was forced. The photograph burned like hot lead in his pocket.

“It comes naturally,” Vincent replied automatically, slipping out of the shadows. He extended the cigarette in his hand towards Veld. “Do you want this? Thought I did, but it tastes like licking an ashtray. Except the ashtray is on fire.” Veld laughed a little at that, took the cigarette from Vincent. Took a deep drag. “There’s something wrong,” Vincent observed after a beat.

“What makes you say that?” Veld questioned on the exhale.

“Are you denying it?” Vincent retorted, but Veld just shrugged. “Then tell me.”

Veld smoked the rest of the cigarette in silence, not speaking until he’d ground it out beneath his shoe.

“I think I need to be at least halfway to drunk to have this conversation,” he realized, sharing the epiphany aloud. Vincent trailed him with a sigh as he swept into the hotel lobby and flagged down an attendant.

“Yes, sir? How can I help you?” the young woman in uniform asked with a practiced smile.

“Could I get a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of red sent up to—” Veld trailed off, called back over his shoulder. “Hey, Vince, what’s our room number?”

“Twenty-three,” Vincent said with a sigh.

“Yeah, room twenty-three,” Veld continued to the attendant with a grin. “The good stuff, too. None of that cheap shit. Go ahead and send up dinner, too, if you don’t mind. Just whatever you have in the commons is fine. Thanks, sweet.”

Vincent very nearly rolled his eyes. He’d managed to forget, in their years apart, just what an incorrigible flirt Veld was. It made him feel more like he fit in, Vincent supposed. He had to admit, even pushing fifty, with that scar newly marring his face, Veld was still pretty damn good at it. The hotel attendant left with a blush on her cheeks and a light in her eye that said she’d quite enjoyed it. Vincent didn’t get it. His attempts at intentionally flirting were about as graceful as a choccobo on ice-skates. Maybe it was easier for Veld, since he wasn’t actually attracted to any of the women he flirted with. He wasn’t quite as smooth with men.

“I didn’t buy you those clothes,” Veld observed as they slipped into their shared room and closed the door behind them.

“You inspired me, I suppose,” Vincent said dryly, and whatever it was Veld was trying to avoid talking about must have been _really_ bad, then, if he was trying to discuss Vincent’s choice of sweater instead. “You are worrying me, Veld,” he admitted.

“I know. Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’m really not trying to be an ass here, Vincent, it’s just…” He trailed off, winced, looked at his partner. _It’s just there’s a boy trapped in a Shinra boarding school with your eyes, except they’re mako-green, and he plays piano like you do. And I don’t know how to tell you, and I don’t know how to feel, and if I open my mouth to talk about this I’m half-certain I’m going to cry or scream at you and I don’t want to do either of those things right now, not fucking sober._

The knock at the door spared Veld from continuing. He took the dinner and drinks he’d ordered from the bellhop’s rolling cart and tipped the kid before setting the tray on the coffee table and settling down beside Vincent on the tiny hotel sofa. He poured them both a drink before offering Vincent a silent toast and taking a deep drag of his whiskey.

They were a few drinks into the evening before Veld found the courage to use his tongue, but the words that came tumbling out weren’t the ones he was expecting, weren’t the ones he’d been meaning to say.

“Tell me about Lucrecia.”

“I…” Vincent froze. He hadn’t talked about her, his feelings for her, ever. Not aloud. “I left you lett—”

“I got your fucking letters, Valentine,” Veld growled. “I read all of them in your fucking room in the Shinra Mansion after I’d combed that place and given up all hope of ever seeing you alive again. Now, look me in my fucking eyes and tell me about her.”

“Veld,” Vincent whispered, his voice a small, broken thing.

“Did you love her?” Veld demanded quietly. Vincent’s eyes flickered away from his, and his left hand half-curled into a fist until it was stopped by his claws.

“Not like I love you,” he said after a while, and Veld wondered if he was trying to spare him the pain, or if he really was that clueless. Either option seemed just as likely.

“Not all love is the same, idiot,” Veld murmured hoarsely. “That doesn’t mean it isn’t love. Tell me about her. Tell me how you loved her.”

Vincent closed his eyes. Drained his glass of wine. Poured himself another. Finally, reluctantly, he turned his eyes up towards Veld.

“She was… _bright_. Everything about her—her aura, her smile, the power of her intellect. She was so mind-shatteringly brilliant, but still so much like a child. She ate cake for breakfast sometimes, played pranks on the rest of us, and she giggled like a schoolgirl whenever something charmed her. She made me a daisy-crown, once, insisted I wear the thing and pouted about it so much that I actually left the mansion and escorted them all to the reactor—Lu, Hojo, and Gast—with flowers in my hair. And no one even blinked, really, because that was just how she was…”

_She shoved a picnic basket into his left hand and grabbed his right, tugging a reluctant Vincent along with her into the bright light of morning. When he finally stopped resisting and walked alongside her, she laced her fingers through his own, swinging their conjoined arms gently as they walked. For a long while, there was silence between the two of them as they listened to the birds sing out their morning chorus, as the crisp breeze rustled the tall grass around them. Lucrecia broke the silence with a quiet, appreciative sigh, and she tugged Vincent to a stop at the top of a hill, taking the picnic basket from him and pulling out a blanket. He helped her spread it across the ground._

_When they were finished, she pushed him down onto the blanket, rolling her body on top of his. Neither of them made a sound, and the birds continued singing around them as she leaned in and let their noses brush, catching his full lips with her own._

_“You taught me to appreciate silence, you know,” Lucrecia whispered as she pulled away. “I was always humming, or singing, or jabbering away before I met you. You taught me how to just…listen”_

_He had smiled, and she had kissed him again, deeper. She made a noise low in her throat when Vincent’s hand strayed down and pushed her dress up the bare skin of her thigh…_

“I didn’t get it, for a while, what someone like her could possibly see in a person like me. I know, now, of course, that she never saw _me_ , not really, that when she looked at me she saw my father. But at the time… People— _normal people_ —don’t just _look_ at me like that, Veld… like I’m a _person_. Not a monster or a Turk or a guard-dog for the Shinra, just a person… and when I was with her, it almost felt true. She helped me escape myself for a little while.”

_And that was all Vincent had ever really wanted, wasn’t it?_ Veld thought sadly. _To escape himself_. The thought of it made him sad, Vincent giving his love to some shallow girl who could never appreciate his darkness, whose only virtue to his partner was her ability to erase everything Veld loved about the man. Vincent was beautiful in his contradictions, and only a person who could appreciate him in all his complexity, both his tenderness and his demons, deserved him.

“I’m so sorry,” Vincent said, agonized. Veld cupped Vincent’s head between his hands, fingers tangling in his hair, and leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together.

“I know,” Veld whispered gently.

“I won’t blame you if you never forgive me,” Vincent continued, “but she’s gone, Veld. She’s just another ghost now. When I left the mansion, I made the choice to leave my ghosts behind. It’s in the past…”

Vincent trailed off when Veld laughed, some sad thing halfway to sobbing.

“I forgave you the day I read those letters, more than a decade ago.” Veld pulled away, fiddled with something in his coat pocket. “But I don’t think leaving Lucrecia behind us is an option anymore.” He continued before Vincent could question him, slipping the photo out of his pocket. “I found the kid.”

And he just handed Vincent the picture without any warning, without any more preamble, because if any words existed to make this better, Veld didn’t have them. For a long while, Vincent froze, saying nothing, his face unchanging.

“Fuck,” Vincent whispered shakily at last, reaching out to claim Veld’s whiskey glass and downing it with a wince.


	8. You're Crashing, But You're No Wave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent tries to come to terms with Veld's news. Another short one.

For a few months, Vincent had been something astonishingly close to happy in Nibelheim. For a few months, the days were quiet, and the nights were never lonely. Lucrecia’s presence bathed his world in golden light, and for just a little while Vincent let himself pretend that things could continue like this, in this peaceful limbo, their haven outside reality. There were intrusions, of course, brief moments when reality dared interrupt the dream, when they were forced to remember the transience of what they had together. Every conversation about Lucrecia’s next project, Vincent’s next assignment, ruptured the illusion.

It was never meant to last. Vincent had always known that, and he had always just assumed Lucrecia did too. Their dalliance was perhaps made even sweeter by the knowledge that it came with an expiry date. There were no stakes here. They came together like two stars aligning, a brief flash of brilliance before they passed one another by, moving in opposite directions.

He had anticipated that they would stay the same course until the Jenova Project was completed, that he would at least have Lucrecia’s simple affections to keep him company while he completed his exile, out there in the middle of nowhere. He had never anticipated that things could go so wrong so quickly.

_They were sitting together on the hill where Lucrecia had brought them to picnic, all those months ago. Though Vincent had long ago replaced his trousers, Lucrecia was still naked in his lap, her face resting against his chest, boneless and content as Vincent ran his hands through her chocolate brown hair._

_“I don’t want this to end,” she whispered against his skin. It became clear after a silence that Vincent had no intention of replying, and she glanced up at him. “Vincent?” she whispered._

_“What do you want me to say, Lucrecia?” Vincent murmured. “We both know that it must.”_

_“But does it?” she asked earnestly, excitedly, cupping his face and turning his eyes up to hers. “Soon enough, this project will be over, and both of us will be back in Midgar. I know you have to travel, sometimes, for work, but…”_

_“Lucrecia,” Vincent interrupted firmly, coldly. “Do you have any idea what I_ do _for Shinra?”_

_“You’re a Turk,” she answered quietly, eyes darting down to her lap for a moment._

_“Yeah,” he said flatly. “I’m a Turk. I might be playing bodyguard right now, but I_ kill _for a living.” He shook his head. “This whole time, I thought you knew I was a monster and chose to look past it, but you honestly just didn’t realize, did you?” he muttered, strangely disappointed._

_“You think you’re the only person who has ever done bad things?” Lucrecia countered. “There’s blood on my hands too.” She choked at that, untangling herself from Vincent and rising to her feet. She picked her rumpled dress up off the ground and slipped it over her head._

_“Lu?” he asked, concern in his tone, following her to his feet. He took a step towards her, but she motioned for him to stop, so he did, freezing on the spot._

_“Don’t. Don’t touch me, Vincent,” she said through the lump in her throat. “I don’t deserve it.”_

_“You’re talking nonsense,” Vincent said gently, inching just a bit closer towards her._

_“I killed your father,” she whispered in a voice like a sepulture, solemn and dead. Vincent’s lips formed the word “what,” but no sound came out. “It was all my fault. If it hadn’t been so stupid, hadn’t been so worried about my pride, if I had just listened to him…”_

_“My…father?” he echoed finally. “You knew my father?”_

_She broke then, the tears he could hear in her voice finally streaming down her face. He moved another step closer to her, ignored her when she tried to wave him away, but she only cried harder when he tried to gather her in his arms, pounding her fists weakly against his chest until he released her. She ran, then, and he decided she’d made it quite clear she didn’t want to be followed. He just stood there and watched her, unsure what to do. He had never been good at handling Lucrecia’s often volatile emotions, so he would just ignore them, and eventually she would calm down. That was how this always worked._

_He thought that things would get better. That she just needed time to work through her emotions, but then the next thing he knew she was kissing Hojo, and they were talking about marriage, and how had everything collapsed so quickly?_

_He had tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter, that Veld was waiting back in Midgar and they had never meant for this to be anything other than temporary anyway. He had only ever wanted her to be happy; what did it matter with who?_

_It didn’t matter, as long as she was happy…_

_She was six months pregnant the last time she climbed into bed with him. She had knocked at his door meekly, like a child up past their bedtime, afraid of being chastised, and he’d had no intention of letting her in, but when he got up to open the door and tell her to go back to her husband, she looked like such an utter wreck that he ushered her inside. Her usually vibrant eyes were exhausted, red and ringed in shadows. The blush had gone from her cheeks, leaving her looking wan and waxy. Her hair hung dull and lifeless around a face that was unquestionably too thin._

_“I’m so sorry, Vincent,” she said hoarsely, wrapping her arms securely around her own frame. “I had a nightmare, and Hojo’s in his lab. I didn’t know where else to go.”_

_“…I see,” Vincent said flatly, and Lucrecia cringed, her dull eyes leaving his._

_“I’m sorry. I should go—”_

_“Stay, Lu,” Vincent prompted. “Get some rest. You look like hell.”_

_They had no choice but to lie close together in Vincent’s small bed, Lucrecia’s back pressed against his chest, and his arm found itself resting naturally around the round swell of her waist. The rest of her body felt too skinny in comparison, bony angles where he remembered curves. He had to remind himself that it was no longer his place to look after her. She was a grown woman, a_ married _woman. He had no right to lecture her about her health. It was no longer his place._

 _But if that was true, why was she curled up here in_ his _arms, in_ his _bed, a place that decidedly was no longer hers to occupy?_

_“Is something wrong?” he murmured into her hair, and he was close enough to her to feel her wince, the tension flicker in her shoulders briefly._

_“I’m worried about our child. I’ve felt so sick lately, and I’ve been having these dreams…” Lucrecia trailed off and shuddered, a tremble wracking her fail frame. “I think I made a mistake,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, Vincent.”_

_‘I’m worried about our child.’_ Her words echoed in Vincent’s head. _Our_ child. Had she known? Or had she been talking about herself and Hojo?

“I thought I might find you here.”

Vincent startled a bit at Veld’s voice behind him, so quiet it hardly carried over the ocean waves crashing into the shore nearby. He’d drank until Veld had gotten worried, paced their hotel room like a caged animal until he was sure that if he didn’t escape he would start shredding the drapes, and vanished into the night with little more than a vague mutter in Veld’s direction about being back later. He’d wandered the quiet streets of Costa del Sol for a while before his feet inevitably turned towards the beach. He’d walked for miles before finally finding a spot sufficiently far away from human habitation, and that’s where he’d been sitting watching the moonlight dance on the water long enough now to have completely lost all track of time.

Vincent didn’t glance up when Veld came to settle beside him in the sand, and for a long while they watched the waves roll in together in silence.

“He looks even more like you in person,” Veld said after a long while, unable to stand the quiet anymore. “Plays like you too.” Veld sighed. “Vincent…” he prompted after a moment, willing him to say something.

“Shinra has my _child_ , Veld. _I have a child,_ and Hojo…” Vincent couldn’t finish the thought. He was quaking when Veld reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder. “I spent thirteen fucking years sleeping in a coffin, and _Hojo had my child_.” His voice was a small, pitiful thing. Veld wasn’t surprised when Vincent broke, and he just pulled the taller man closer wordlessly, until Vincent’s head came to rest against his shoulder. If he made any sounds as he cried, Veld couldn’t hear them over the crashing of the waves, but Veld knew he was crying, could feel the damp evidence on his collar.

“You didn’t know,” Veld whispered comfortingly, but it only made Vincent cry harder. He could hear it now, the sharp, pained noises in the back of his throat.

_The world around him was tinged mako-green. Hazy. Sounds came muffled, any voices pitched lower than shouting registering as an indecipherable buzz in his ears. The sounds were clear enough, though, that day—the day of the birth. Lucrecia’s cries of agony as she forced her weak, tired body to push rising to a crescendo, the infant’s shrill cries following soon after. Hojo was holding the newborn, frozen as he stared down at the child with awe. Was he disappointed? Hojo had wanted to recreate an Ancient, and he’d created a squalling baby instead, shrill and pinched-faced and unbelievably normal-looking._

_And the sound of Lucrecia, screaming for her child until she went hoarse, screaming until she cried, begging Hojo to let her see her son._ Their _son. Those noises had been clear too._

“I knew there was a child,” Vincent said flatly, hoarsely. “It should have been enough. It shouldn’t have mattered whether or not it was mine.”

 _What would you have done_? protested a voice in his head. Flashes of blood on a tiled floor. A child screaming. The taste of blood on his tongue. Galian's eyes staring back at him in the mirrored glass, no trace of humanity left in the gaze. _Do you think you were fit to save anyone?_

“There’s still time to make this right,” Veld assured him gently. “ _Vincent_ ,” he said firmly when Vincent visibly continued to sulk in self-loathing. “Hojo _killed_ you, took you apart, stitched you back together again after he stuck a bunch of monsters inside your head, and locked you in a fucking _casket_. On Shiva, if you blame yourself for _anything_ that has happened in the years since…” 

Veld trailed off, sighed in frustration, because _of course_ Vincent blamed himself. He trailed a line of kisses down the side of Vincent’s face, lips feather-light, tasting the salt of his tears as his mouth traced the tear-streaks on Vincent’s cheeks.

“I’m getting us two train tickets to Midgar in the morning,” Veld said after a while. “Things are going to move quickly now. I need you close by.”

“All right,” Vincent murmured in response, with only the briefest hesitance.

“All right?” Veld echoed in surprise. He had been prepared for a fight. He recalled the conversation they’d had only weeks ago, about Vincent not trusting himself, not feeling in control enough of his demons to be close to others. He had expected much the same response today. “You aren’t worried about…”

“My demons?” Vincent finished for him, sensing Veld’s reluctance to broach the topic. Veld gave a hesitant nod. “We’ve… reached a truce. I would rather not stay in the city for long, but I understand the necessity of me being nearby.”

“Well, all right, then,” Veld confirmed.

“If it’s okay with you, Veld, I’d like to be alone tonight,” Vincent murmured after a while. “I’ll stop back by the inn in time to clean up before we leave in the morning.”

“Right,” Veld agreed quietly. Veld leaned into press a kiss to Vincent’s lips, gentle and lingering, before he drew away. He stood to begin the long walk back to the hotel, but paused for just a moment before starting away. “His name is Sephiroth,” he added as an afterthought, realizing he’d never told him. 

“Sephiroth,” Vincent echoed quietly, tasting the name on his tongue.


	9. This Photograph Is Proof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff, mostly.

Veld’s apartment in Midgar hadn’t changed much in the fourteen years since he had been away, Vincent realized as he followed his partner through the door. Vincent’s own spaces had always been minimalist to a fault, but Veld’s small loft felt lived-in and cozy. Thick, colorful rugs covered large portions of the old hardwood floors, an overabundance of floor lamps making up for the limited light at night cast by the old, dim track lighting on the high ceilings overhead. Redbrick walls showed through peeling white stucco in large swatches. His furniture was an eclectic mix of vintage-shop finds that somehow looked good together, most of it scrounged up below the plate. He’d gotten a new sofa, some plush-looking, emerald green thing, but otherwise, everything looked just as Vincent remembered it.

Veld flipped lights on and ran water for coffee, oblivious to the fact that Vincent had gone still as a statue in the middle of his foyer, looking as if he’d seen a ghost. It wasn’t until Veld had turned to ask Vincent if he wanted a cup that he noticed him.

“Hey,” Veld murmured, making his way back over to his partner. “You okay?”

“It’s like…” he breathed, looking around at the loft. “It’s like you sent me out to pick up dinner. Like I’ve been gone fifteen minutes instead of almost fifteen years.”

Veld breathed out a sad chuckle at that. “Yeah. I suppose I haven’t changed much around the place. …Speaking of dinner, is take-out okay? There’s a noodle joint on the corner that does delivery.”

There was no point in trying to assure Vincent that this wasn’t weird, Veld decided, because this was most _certainly_ the exact sort of thing he would classify as weird. Vincent had been killed and turned into an immortal vessel for the harbinger of doomsday, slept in a coffin for thirteen years, and now he was here in Veld’s apartment. Ordering noodles. It all seemed both so banal and surreal at the same time.

“That sounds fine,” Vincent said after a moment, slowly blinking his way back to reality. He wandered unhurriedly around the space, gloved fingers brushing over surfaces as he moved, as Veld phoned their order in. Veld found him in the bedroom when he finished, the only area of the house that was walled-off from the rest, holding a framed photo of the both of them in his hands. Both the photo and the frame belonged to him, one of the few items from Vincent’s apartment that Veld displayed in his own.

“I suppose this goes in the drawer when your girlfriend comes over,” Vincent murmured as Veld approached him.

In the frame was a collage of pictures of both of them, the sort you could get from those cheap instant photo booths. They’d taken this particular set at Wall Market what felt like an eternity ago. In the first picture, they were just smiling, wide and sincere, arms draped around one another’s shoulders, both of them well on the way to drunk, cheeks flushed pink with the booze. Vincent was draped over Veld’s shoulder in the next one, kissing his cheek as he wrapped Veld in a hug. They were kissing in the last one. Veld had turned his head to catch Vincent’s mouth just a bare second before the shutter flashed for a final time. They both looked so young. Vincent might have been twenty.

“I broke it off,” Veld replied after a second, remembering Vincent had spoken. “Didn’t seem fair, to waste any more of her time. Only person I ever have over anymore is Tseng, and not that he has any business in my bedroom, but he knows anyway. I, uh… I have your stuff. Not your furniture, of course, because you have absolutely no taste whatsoever. But the rest of it.”

Vincent blinked. “I’ve been gone for thirteen years, Veld, and you’re still holding onto my old shirts?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. Veld just rolled his eyes.

“I just haven’t thought about it, all right? There are two boxes. It isn’t like I’ve noticed the missing space.” It wasn’t exactly the truth. He went to the closet and dragged the two said boxes out, leaving them on the floor for Vincent to rummage through if he wanted. “I forgot to ask you about coffee,” Veld observed after a brief moment. Vincent just nodded absently, picking up one of the boxes and placing it on the bed. Veld slipped out of the room quietly, trying not to disturb his partner, and took his time making them both coffee.

When Veld returned to the room he found Vincent sitting on the bed, sabatons kicked off in the floor, a photo album resting open on his lap.

“Dad was always taking pictures,” Vincent said quietly when he felt Veld approach, not looking up. “He told me it was a habit he got from Mom. Said it used to drive him crazy, how she was always insisting on photographing everything, but after she was gone, he said he was glad that he had all those pictures. So he started taking pictures of everything too, that way I would have the memories one day, when he was gone…”

Veld settled down on the mattress next to Vincent, wordlessly passing him his coffee. He leaned against the taller man as Vincent flipped through the photo album. They watched Vincent age like a slow-motion time-lapse, a little black-haired infant becoming a little black-haired toddler, a little black-haired child, and finally, a little black-haired adolescent who looked older than his twelve years _. Vincent blowing out birthday candles, learning how to ride a bike. There he was at the beach with his mother, a floppy hat protecting his porcelain pallor from the sun._ The absence of his mother from the photographs was sudden and tangible, but both Vincent and Grimoire still smiled in the pictures they had without her, and they were genuine smiles. _Vincent at Midwinter, opening his presents. Vincent seated at the baby Grand Piano in their parlor, playing with eyes closed. Vincent and Dr. Valentine posing in front of a science fair project bearing a proud blue ribbon._

And then pages and pages of nothing. The only photographs of Vincent after that were either locked in an evidence locker somewhere or sitting, framed, on Veld’s bedside table.

“It’s like I died when I was twelve,” Vincent murmured after a while. Of all the things a person could come to regret later in life—any person, much less a Turk—Veld certainly hadn’t thought not taking more photographs would end up on the short list of things that haunted him, but there it was.

_He should have told everyone the truth about his feelings for his partner ages ago. He never should have sent Vincent away to Nibelheim. He really should have taken more fucking photographs._

Veld had killed men he'd considered friends, but those were his only real regrets. 

Vincent took the polaroid of Sephiroth out of his pocket and placed it carefully on the first blank page of the album, fingers trailing absently over the boy’s face as he looked down at it.

“I suppose it will be the opposite for him, won’t it?” Vincent muttered. “Shinra took my life when I was twelve, and if everything goes right we’ll liberate Sephiroth from them at almost the same age.”

 _And if the kid doesn’t want to come with us?_ Veld wondered to himself. _What then?_ He wasn’t so convinced that swaying a teenager to abandon his entire life to run off with a pair of strangers was such a shoo-in, but he couldn’t bear to mention it to Vincent. It was one of those rare occasions where he was swept up in his emotions, and there was no use trying to reason with him while he was like this. It wasn’t as if they had a better option, anyway.

“What do we plan on doing?” Veld asked after a pause. “After? Where will we go? And it is _we_ , you know. I don’t care how dangerous leaving the company is—”

“We are making plans to steal Hojo’s most valuable and prized experiment,” Vincent cut in. “I don’t think we could be in any deeper shit with Shinra than we will be after that. How poorly the company takes your early retirement will be the least of our concerns, Veld.”

“All right,” Veld conceded. “But still. Do we have plans for what comes next?”

“We go somewhere Shinra won’t find us,” Vincent answered.

“Do you have any idea where that is?” Veld prodded. Vincent sighed, shook his head. “Okay. I suppose that’s what you can work on here tomorrow while I’m at the office. I’ll ask Tseng what he thinks…” Veld trailed off. “Oh.”

“Hmm?” Vincent hummed, glancing up from the photograph.

“Tseng usually comes by for dinner on Mondays after work,” Veld said sheepishly.

“Is there anything you want me to get started on before you get home?” Vincent asked nonchalantly. He gave a little smile at Veld’s visible surprise. “He’s your partner, Vel. I trust him.”

Veld smiled a little at that, nuzzling closer to Vincent’s side. He glanced down at the photo album again, and an idea struck him. He rolled over and rustled through the nightstand on one side of his bed, retrieving the camera he’d stored there before returning to Vincent’s side. He tugged Vincent back into the pillows on his bed before curling up beside him. Veld pressed the camera into Vincent’s hands.

“What is this?” Vincent wondered aloud.

“Your arms are longer than mine,” Veld explained. “Do you mind?” Vincent just continued to stare at him blankly, and Veld rolled his eyes. “Take a picture of us, Vin,” he said with a sigh.

“…Why?” Vincent asked.

“Because you didn’t die when you were twelve, Vincent. You’re alive. You’re here with me, right now, and there are a lot of blank pages in that book left to fill.” Veld rested his head on Vincent’s shoulder. “Come on, love. Please?”

Smiling gently, Vincent turned the camera towards them and held it at arm’s length, snapping a picture of the two of them, curled close to each other in bed, light dancing in their eyes.

“How’s your Wutian?” Veld asked the next afternoon as he locked the front door behind him and hung his coat on the peg by the entrance. Vincent glanced up at him from his spot on one of the plush rugs scattered about the floor. He was hunched over a map, marking locations and jotting down notes on the pad of paper beside him.

“Rusty, but passable,” Vincent replied at last. “Why?”

“’Rusty, but passable,’ as in you could probably order dinner at a restaurant or…” Veld prompted, and Vincent sighed.

“Rusty, but passable, as in I can still speak it fluently, but doubt that I could pass it off as my native language,” he explained with mild exasperation.

“Brilliant,” Veld said with a smile. “I’ll explain everything in just a bit, but Tseng will be here any minute, so you might want to…you know…put some pants on?”

Vincent, seeming to notice that he was in his boxers for the first time, quickly folded away his map and made his way towards the bedroom. He emerged—wearing pants this time—at almost the same moment a key rattled in the door. The lock clicked, but the door didn’t open. A moment later, there was a hesitant knock.

“Could you grab the door for Tseng?” Veld called from the kitchen. “I’m cutting the fudge.”

“ _Fudge_ ,” Vincent repeated in a whisper, shaking his head. Shiva’s name, why _fudge_?

Since the door was unlocked anyway, he pulled it open without bothering to glance through the peephole, coming face-to-face with Tseng. Veld’s new partner barely looked more than twenty, and he was obviously Wutian—his silken hair dark as night and pin-straight, his brown eyes almond-shaped. Vincent recognized him at once.

_Vincent was lounging in the Turk’s breakroom in the Shinra Building. Hiding was a better word, really. Veld was in medical, getting a wrist fracture checked out, and he wasn’t in a fit mood for company at the moment. At least, he hadn’t thought he was, but when he saw the small shadow lingering in the shadows by the vending machine, he called out to the kid instead of telling them to scram._

_“No one just winds up in a restricted area of the Shinra Building on accident, so I assume you’re hiding, not lost?” Vincent said to the shadow in a disinterested tone. The shadow shifted a little, as if trying to decide whether or not Vincent’s words were spoken in its direction. “We’re the only two here, last I checked.”_

_The child slipped out into the light then, and Vincent saw that it was a boy—slight, Wutian, a few years away from puberty, a suspicious look in his dark eyes. He was dressed in a school uniform, his black hair pulled back in a neat tail._

_“Care to tell me where exactly it is you’re supposed to be?” Vincent asked calmly, nothing accusing in his tone._

_“My class is touring the building for career day,” the youth explained after a beat, matching Vincent’s even tone._

_“Stay away from Shinra. That’s all the career advice you’ll ever need,” Vincent said seriously._

_“But…_ you _work for Shinra,” the boy protested cautiously. Vincent gave a casual shrug._

_“Didn’t have much of a choice,” he said simply._

_“I don’t think I do either,” the boy murmured, and Vincent looked at him with renewed understanding. Well, damn. This was the part he was bad at—dealing with emotions, offering sympathy. Vincent pulled a soda out of the breakroom fridge instead, popping the top for the kid and gesturing him forward towards the table he rested at. The boy climbed into a chair and reached out for the soda, but Vincent caught his hand, forcing him to meet his eyes. That mahogany gaze of his was intense, serious, and when he spoke his voice was a low murmur._

_“Do you have anywhere else you can go? Family, close friends who might take you in?”_

_Reluctantly, the boy shook his head. Vincent sighed. Released him. Silence fell for a while._

_“Most of the Turks are like you, you know,” Vincent said at last. “We don’t have anyone else. So we’re close. We watch each other’s backs. It’s like a little family of our own. Look… I have to go check up on someone. As long as you promise not to get locked in the building overnight, I never saw you here, all right?”_

_“Right.”_

Still standing in Veld’s doorway, Tseng blinked a few times before holding up the pack of beer in his hand like some sort of entry fee, and Vincent woke from his own daze and stepped aside, letting the young man enter.

“The key doesn’t do you much good if you don’t open the door after using it!” Veld called lightly from across the loft, and both Vincent and Tseng seemed grateful for the interruption.

“Sorry, boss,” Tseng replied, moving towards the kitchen to put the beer in the fridge. “I knew you had…company.” He couldn’t help but throw another short glance at Vincent. “I didn’t want to just barge in.”

“Curry tonight, if you want to grab the dishes,” Veld told Tseng as the younger man passed him a beer. Tseng nodded and made his way to the cabinet, setting the table without a word as Veld finished up cooking.

Vincent just watched them from the living area, a little pang going through him at how… _familiar_ this was. He was glad that neither of the men was forcing him to interact. He needed the moment. Being around someone other than Veld felt strange after all these years. It wasn’t until they were all settled at the table for dinner that Veld spoke, breaking the silence.

“Introductions seem a little silly honestly, but, Tseng, Vincent. Vincent, Tseng,” he said dismissively, popping the top off another beer.

“We’ve met,” Vincent murmured.

“You remember?” Tseng said with mild surprise. Vincent had been wearing his ID badge, that day they’d met in the Turk’s lounge, and Tseng had been more than observant enough to take note of the name. Tseng had learned ages ago that the first Turk he ever met had been Veld’s old partner, but he hadn’t expected Vincent to remember the exchange. Then again, he supposed it wasn’t every day a kid found his way into a restricted area of the Shinra Building.

Vincent gave a curt nod, and Tseng turned back to Veld. “Have you had a chance to mention the job yet?” he prompted. Veld shook his head.

“Not really.”

“Job?” Vincent echoed.

“The boarding school where the kid is staying is apparently in desperate need of a new Wutian instructor,” Veld explained. “Tseng set up an interview.”

“An…interview?”

“You said your Wutian is passable. I was going to send Tseng in if we had to—”

“Then do that,” Vincent interrupted, but he followed the knee-jerk reaction with a sigh. Was he actually going to pass up the chance to meet his _child_ , let a stranger be the one to ferry him away to safety just because he didn’t feel comfortable doing some undercover work? “Fuck,” he murmured, and Veld gave the smallest smile. “Veld, nothing about me exactly screams ‘secondary teacher,’” Vincent pointed out after a while.

“Yeah, well, you make a better girl than I expected too. Pretty sure if you can pull off a dress you can pull off some glasses and a bad pair of khaki slacks,” Veld teased. Tseng arched an eyebrow, questioning, and Vincent cringed a little. _‘Another time, kid,’_ Veld mouthed at Tseng, not even trying to hide the words from Vincent, who promptly cuffed him upside the head, gently.

“All right, Verdot,” Vincent sighed at last. “Find me a passable costume, and I’ll try it.”

“Of course you will,” Veld said fondly, nudging the other man with an elbow playfully. “Now, how about I get us some real drinks and we settle down in the living room?”

A few minutes after Tseng and Vincent had moved to Veld’s living “room”—the area in roughly the center of the loft where a few mismatched chairs and sofas were situated in a vague rectangle at the perimeter of the same large rug, surrounding a low coffee table—Veld appeared bearing a tray with their drinks and a plate of fudge. Vincent had expected whiskey—he knew that’s what Veld drank, after all, and Tseng appeared to be drinking the same—so he was surprised at the sweet, almond scent of the liquor in the glass Veld handed him. Vincent couldn’t imagine why Veld would possibly keep amaretto around, but here it was. Part of Vincent wondered if Veld still had a bottle lying around, pilfered from his apartment when he collected his things.

The fudge, it turned out, was for Tseng, who had a sweet-tooth he seemed only half-aware of, much to Veld’s amusement. They were all a bit tipsy when Veld announced he was going to try to find something for Vincent to wear, leaving the ex-Turk alone in the living area with Tseng. They passed a few moments in awkward silence, sipping at their drinks to avoid speaking. It was Tseng who finally broke the quiet.

“You tried to get me out, didn’t you?” Tseng murmured after a while. “After you realized I belonged to the Shinra.” Vincent sipped his drink again, took his time.

“I did,” he confirmed at last.

“Why?” Tseng couldn’t help but wonder. Vincent really would have risked everything, risked himself, to get some kid out of Shinra’s clutches? Was he that reckless, or simply that sure of himself?

“This isn’t the kind of life I would want for a kid,” Vincent admitted. That wasn’t the only reason, but it was the crux of it. “I would have spared you it if I could have.”

“I could have gone to the Science Department. Or Engineering. Most people expected me to,” Tseng said after a beat. “I didn’t have to be a killer for the company. Not first-hand, at least.”

“Then why?” Vincent asked, genuinely curious. Most people didn’t just _choose_ the Turks. It was Shinra’s home for their misfit toys, children broken in just the right way to make them good killers, but too broken to do anything else. “If you had a choice, why the Turks?”

“Because the first Turk I ever met talked to me like I was an equal, like I deserved respect, even though I was nine. He tried to get me away from the company, somewhere safe, and I believed him when he told me that the Turks were family.” Tseng took another sip of whiskey, and his lips didn’t move, but he smiled at Vincent with his eyes. “You were right, by the way. I’m glad I get that chance to thank you for it.”

“Are you aware that aside from your old Turk uniforms, you own literally nothing that _isn’t_ black?” Veld called as he popped out of the bedroom, a stack of clothes draped over his hand. “So you had best be damned glad that there’s plenty of shit in my closet that matches navy because there’s no way you’d be able to wear my pants.” He dumped the clothes into Vincent’s lap as he came to sit down beside him on the sofa. “Try those.”

Sighing, Vincent rose from the sofa and went into the bedroom to change. He emerged a few moments later, one of his old white button-downs tucked into navy trousers. A dull yellow knit sweater of Veld’s that could easily be described as “oversized” draped around his frame, and his hair was pulled up into a loose topknot. He’d borrowed a pair of Veld’s tortoise-shell false glasses, trying his best to hide his eyes behind the heavy frames. He was carrying a floral-patterned tie in his right hand.

“You’re going to have to tie this damned thing,” Vincent admitted to Veld, waving the tie to indicate the source of his frustration. Veld just gave a breathy laugh at that and stepped forward to help him. And, okay, so it was harder doing this for something else than it was tying one for himself, but Veld thought his attempt was acceptable. He pulled Vincent closer as he tightened it and pressed a light kiss to his lips.

“Well, he looks the part,” Tseng observed with mild surprise.

It was the sweater that did it, mostly, overlarge enough to partially hide the gauntlet that replaced his left hand, a dull goldish color that made the part that wasn’t covered stand out less, though the glasses certainly helped. And sure, Vincent was handsome—handsome in the same way that Tseng was himself, a way others just as often called “pretty”—but he’d never imagined it was possible for him to look so unthreatening. Pretty as he was, something in Vincent’s eyes usually made it clear that he was pretty like a wildfire, not pretty like a doll. Right now, he was just pretty in a bookish, unassuming way, a way that almost made him seem…soft.

“Guess now it’s up to you to act the part,” Veld commented to Vincent.

“You don’t have faith in me?” Vincent asked, his voice not that deeper-than-sin rumble Veld was accustomed to, but a smooth, soft baritone.

“Oh, we’re only relying on your people skills, is all,” Veld pointed out. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

“That was sarcasm, Tseng,” Vincent clarified, in case somehow Tseng had missed it. Veld laughed. Tseng muttered a bastardized prayer in Wutian, shaking his head. And they all went back to their drinks, their attempts at forcing Vincent to roleplay a secondary-school teacher bordering closer and closer to ridiculous as the night wore on.

Vincent was thankful that his regeneration would at least spare him from having to sit through the first job interview of his life with a hangover.


	10. Light With a Sharpened Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent visits the boarding school.

The boarding school was as opulent as Veld’s descriptions had led him to expect. Vincent, dressed in the outfit Veld had picked out for him the night before, was admitted by a woman who introduced herself as Theodora with a smile, though she led him to an office on the second floor instead of offering him the grand tour. The school’s headmaster, a stern-looking man, balding at the temples, intercepted them there.

“Ah,” he rumbled in a warm, self-important baritone. “You must be Mr. Kessner.”

“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” Vincent replied in the meek, genteel tone he’d worked on perfecting with Veld and Tseng the evening prior, extending his hand forward to shake. He wasn’t wearing his glove today, and beneath it the skin of his hand was smooth and soft enough to pass as an academic’s. “You must be Dr. Swan.”

“I appreciate you scheduling this interview with us on such short notice,” the older man said as he ushered Vincent into his office. “We lost our last Wutian professor rather unexpectedly. Things have been turbulent for immigrants, you know, with the current political climate.”

“Of course,” Vincent replied, settling on the edge of the seat across the desk from Dr. Swan. “I’m only glad that I was able to answer your ad so quickly. I can only hope I prove to be what you are looking for in an addition to the faculty. I understand how important it is for children to have a consistent classroom environment, so I hope the position can be filled before the start of the new semester.”

“As do I,” Dr. Swan replied solemnly. “Now, what did you mention your background in Wutian is again?”

“Academic, mostly. My grandparents on my mother’s side were from Wutai, and she wanted us to study the culture. Strictly for enrichment purposes. They passed when I was very young.” That, at least, was the truth. “I speak and write it fluently, though unfortunately, it’s unlikely I could pass as a native speaker. Of course, with that comes the added bonus of me having no political or familial connections to Wutai…”

In the end, Vincent thought it was that statement that really sold it. He waited in the office while Dr. Swan ran a background check on the fake ID Tseng had given him. He didn’t bother worrying; he trusted Tseng to do his job.

“Congratulations, Mr. Kessner,” Dr. Snow said as he reentered the office, extending his hand for Vincent to shake. “So long as you’ll accept the offer, you’re as good as hired. Would you like a tour of the premises?”

“If it’s all right with you, I’d like the become acquainted with the grounds on my own,” Vincent suggested mildly. “I tend to take my time with things, and I would hate to tie up someone’s schedule for so long.” 

“Well, you’ve passed your background check, and you’ll have full access to the grounds tomorrow anyway, so I see nothing wrong with it. Don’t hesitate to ask one of the lovely ladies in the office downstairs if you have any questions.”

Vincent gave the man a formal, respectful half-bow before leaving the office. His stomach was in knots. He tried not to let it show on his face as he wandered the halls, keeping an eye out for a familiar, silver-haired boy. He introduced himself occasionally to curious faculty—as their new Wutian professor, of course, and not as Vincent Valentine, ex-Turk, here to ferret away valuable Shinra “property.”

The longer he wandered, the less convinced he was that this place was some sort of diabolical Shinra indoctrination center. It really was just a school, he realized at length. A fine one too, not entirely unlike the one he’d been kicked out of as a child. It was such a fine school, in fact, that he almost found himself questioning whether or not he was doing what was right by taking the child away from here. What sort of replacement could he offer for this? A life on the run with an ex-Turk who was more monster than man? Sephiroth deserved better. He deserved Wutian classes, and music lessons. Praise and piano recitals. He deserved to grow up with a library like the one here, ancient and solemn and packed with weathered hardbacks, comfortably rubbing spines on their shelves. There were children fencing in the gymnasium. For sport, not because their lives relied on being able to use a weapon. They probably had dances in the spring.

Vincent thought of all the locations he’d marked on his map the night before, the notes he’d made. _The Ancient Forest. Remote. Impossible to access on foot. Too dangerous for strangers to wander through. The Forgotten City. Comfortable. Permanent habitation already available. Potential for visitors. Great Glacier region…_ It was a list of ruins, of forlorn and forgotten places on the edges of the civilized world. Was growing up so isolated any better for a child than remaining at this boarding school in Midgar?

He lost his train of thought when he came to the door labeled with a small golden plaque, “Music Room.” It was built to be sound-canceling, but Vincent’s enhanced ears could catch the trailing melody of a piano being played. It felt like his heart had actually dropped into his stomach. There were scores of other children at this school who could play, no doubt, so why was his hand shaking when he turned the doorknob? Vincent entered the room soundlessly.

Sephiroth sat at the piano like a vision, like something from a dream, bathed in a beam of golden sunlight streaming down from the skylight above him, the bright light setting his silver hair aflame. His slender shoulders rocked to the somber beat of his music, his pale hands graceful and certain on the keys.

Vincent forgot to breathe as he moved towards the youth, soundless and enraptured. He became vaguely aware of the moisture pooling at the corners of his eyes and tried to blink it away, settled for closing his eyes all together when it refused to abate. When he opened his eyes again, the child, _his_ child— _My child,_ Vincent marveled—was looking at him with mako-green eyes. Sephiroth finished the last few measures of his piece, never breaking eye contact with the man—yet another strange intruder to his domain.

“You play,” the boy observed in a voice that seemed much too low for a boy his age, but then, Vincent’s own had been the same way, hadn’t it?

“How can you tell?” Vincent questioned quietly.

“Your face. While you were listening,” Sephiroth explained shortly. “Who are you?”

“I’m…” and he just paused there, unsure how to go on. By the gods, how had he ever thought this would be easy? They had all been worried that Vincent didn’t have the people skills to get past a job interview; why, on Shiva, had they not thought to worry about _this_? “I’m your new Wutian professor, Mr. Kessler,” Vincent said at last. _Feel out the water before you just dive in, idiot_ , he warned himself.

“I suppose you really are new, if the others haven’t warned you about me,” Sephiroth remarked casually.

“Oh?” asked Vincent, raising an eyebrow. “Is there a reason they should have?” Sephiroth gave a little, noncommittal shrug.

“They’re afraid of me,” the child commented matter-of-factly.

“I think you will find I don’t scare very easily,” Vincent said, and his smile was warm despite the way the child’s words felt like a knife twisting in his gut, because _right_ , no matter how idyllic this boarding school might have seemed, Sephiroth was still the property of Shinra, and evidence of their tampering was just as evident in the too-mature way he spoke as it was in the mako-flecks in his eyes.

Normally Sephiroth would have laughed at that, but there was something in the way the stranger’s scarlet eyes met his from behind the thick frames of his glasses, steady and unflinching, his gaze hard despite his passive expression, that made him pause and reconsider the bookish new Wutian professor.

“Will you play something for me?” the boy pressed after a beat of silence.

Pain flashed in Vincent’s eyes, constricted around his heart. Unable to say anything around the sudden lump in his throat, he just held up his left hand, letting the boy see the clawed, golden gauntlet that replaced it. Sephiroth blinked.

“…I can play the left hand,” he offered, and Vincent sensed Sephiroth was out of his comfort zone here, trying to offer support to someone else. It would have been immoral to turn him down, to reject him that way, so Vincent steeled himself and approached the piano bench. Sephiroth moved over so they could share it, but they were still close when Vincent sat down beside him, hips and legs flush with one another, elbows bumping. The boy was warm. Bony, the way he’d been at that age. Vincent’s breath came out in a shudder, and he had to physically bite back the urge to wrap his arm around the boy’s slim shoulders. He settled for flexing his right hand a few times instead, trying to loosen up fingers that weren’t remotely used to this anymore.

“I’m rusty,” Vincent felt obligated to warn. “I haven’t played since…” he just held up his hand again, not wanting to pick his way through the potential verbal minefield _that_ conversation could set off. _Since the man I thought was your father killed and dismembered me, and your mother brought me back from the grave…“_ It’s been a while.”

“You pick the piece then,” Sephiroth offered. Vincent thumbed through the music book resting in front of them, settling on a piece he knew well. It wasn’t easy, but it was slow, and he hoped the dragging rhythm would give his fingers time to remember what they were supposed to do.

It felt strange, to only be playing half a melody, but to be playing again at all was more than he had dared dream of. To be playing again while sharing a piano bench _with his son_ …Vincent was extremely glad he had chosen a piece he could still play with his eyes closed. He feared that if he opened them the tears would come again. They played the whole thing through together, beginning to end, and as the final chords rang out, Vincent cursed himself for not choosing a longer piece. If they could just do this forever…

From somewhere outside the soundproofed music room, a bell tolled out the time. Normal human ears shouldn’t have been able to hear it, but Vincent did, and he couldn’t help but notice that Sephiroth did too, stiffening a little as he counted the chimes.

“I have to go,” Sephiroth said darkly, rising. Vincent followed quickly, spell broken.

“Go where?” he asked, anxiety twisting his stomach once more. Sephiroth turned towards him again, tilting his head and regarding Vincent in a way that was strangely…avian, movements too fast and too sudden. Those mako-bright eyes of his narrowed, lips curling up in something Vincent couldn’t identify as malice or mischief.

“Do you want to see why the others are afraid of me?” Sephiroth asked steadily after a while, and his voice was almost toneless, but Vincent sensed that this was a test. He nodded once, curtly. And then some of the intensity faded from Sephiroth’s eyes, and he was just a boy again. “Okay…but if I show you, you have to tell me what happened to your hand.” 

“Deal.” Vincent didn’t even have to think about it. Would he tell the truth? He had no idea. But he knew he absolutely was not passing up a chance to get a chance to see what Shinra had done to him.

“Follow me,” Sephiroth commanded, and Vincent forgot to walk like a meek foreign language professor as he trailed the child through a side entrance he was evidently in possession of the key for and followed him in the direction of the Shinra Building. Sephiroth noticed, and Vincent noted the sudden shift in how the boy regarded him, from evaluating a new teacher to evaluating a potential threat. Vincent held the boy’s gaze steadily, letting the youth know that he saw it.

They came to a stop outside the gates of one of the open arenas Shinra used as training grounds.

“It’s best that no one from Shinra see me,” Vincent deemed it necessary to mention. Sephiroth paused a little as he considered that, his curiosity evident, but he tried to play it cool, nodding instead of pressing Vincent further. 

“Right this way then, _Mr. Kessler_ ,” the boy said, drifting into the shadows at one side of the gate. He inclined his head towards a grate on the side of the wall, held on only by a few screws. “Do you mind?” Sephiroth asked, gesturing towards the screws. Vincent used the tips of his gauntlet to loosen them enough to unscrew by hand, and Sephiroth propped the grate against the wall. 

“This is a ventilation shaft for a storage area adjacent to the training grounds,” the boy explained to Vincent. “There are more ventilation slats on the other side. You should be able to see out of them. I’m putting this back on before someone notices. Stay here and I’ll come get you.”

Feeling a strange sense of pride at Sephiroth’s well-led infiltration of a highly guarded area, Vincent slipped through the grate and found a position at one of the small, horizontal ventilation shafts on the far wall. Sure enough, he had an almost perfect view of the training grounds from here. Everything was still and quiet for a few moments until Sephiroth emerged, flanked by a few armed Security Officers and…

“ ** _Hojo_** ,” Vincent growled quietly, his voice coming two-toned, Galian Beast stirring at his anger. _Not now,_ he urged, though whether he spoke to the monster or himself he didn’t know. He forced himself to close his eyes and focus on his breathing for a moment, and when he reopened them, Sephiroth had moved out towards the center of the training grounds, a katana as tall as he was gleaming in his left hand.

A pair of bagrisks emerged from a small gate at the side of the arena, and Sephiroth focused his attention on them. The ground shook as they rushed the boy, but Sephiroth didn’t budge until one of them launched a magic attack at him. He dodged the petrify spell easily and launched into motion, darting in close to one of the creatures before it could register his movement and cleaving it cleanly in two with his blade. He caught the second bagrisk on the backspin, not a killing blow, but one that sent it skittering back a few feet, screeching in pain. Sephiroth followed it, relentless, and Vincent was close enough to see the gleam in the boy’s eye as he killed.

Vincent just watched, in some emotionless daze of awe, as Hojo put Sephiroth through a marathon of battles that rivaled the spectacles in Corneo Collesium in Wall Market. His vague disbelief shifted swiftly to rage at a familiar roar.

 _A Behemoth_. Hojo was locking a child in an arena with a fucking _Behemoth_. A small one, it turned out, as the beast entered the arena, but a Behemoth nonetheless. Red tinged the edges of Vincent’s vision, and he tensed, doing mental calculations of how long it would take for him to break into the arena from the storage building he was locked in. There were no grates to unscrew on this side. He would have to go through the wall. Impossible, like this, but perhaps as Galian…

Vincent was an instant away from calling on the beast when the Behemoth roared in pain, and he just froze, returning to his place at the ventilation slats and watching in horrified awe as his thirteen-year-old child killed a Behemoth with a katana. He became aware, as Sephiroth cleaned the blood from his blade and Hojo reemerged into the arena, that he was shaking. Violently. Clenched his fists in an attempt to quell it. He would not, _would not,_ let the child see him shaken by this.

And indeed, when Sephiroth entered the storage room through the grate, Vincent looked utterly at ease again. He glanced up as Sephiroth entered, disinterestedly, and slipped his glasses off in order to clean them on his sweater. Uncovered, his eyes were impossibly red in the gloom of their surroundings.

“Who the fuck are you?” Sephiroth asked quietly after a beat.

“That isn’t the question I agreed to answer,” Vincent pointed out. “Do you want to change it?”

“Meet me back at the music room,” Sephiroth said after a brief moment of contemplation. “I’ll make a decision before I get there.”

So Vincent made his way back to the school in a daze, alone. He wasn't sure what he had expected of the day, but it hadn't been this. He thought that, if he were lucky, he and Sephiroth might get to meet, perhaps form the beginnings of a casual bond. He hadn't expected the impossible sweetness of playing piano with him, or the madness in his smile when he'd decapitated a Behemoth. For the first time, Vincent truly realized that this was going to _be...complicated._ Sephiroth was a Shinra weapon in a teenager's body, honed to kill and damned good at it. Enjoyed it, too, not that Vincent had any right to criticize. 

But this boy had already seen the darkest parts of Shinra, had experienced them first-hand. He had been raised in a world devoid of love, where every interaction had a motive. He would not trust easily. He would not follow easily. And he was just as likely to be loyal to Hojo as he was to despise the man. Vincent would need to play this very, very carefully moving forward.

He refused to let himself fear that it might be too late to save him. 


	11. Lost in the Echo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sephiroth asks Vincent his question. Mildly NSFW content in this one. 
> 
> (Also, hi I hate chapter summaries so much)

The first thing Sephiroth learned about other children is that he was not like them. He was five years old the day life taught him that lesson, fresh and bright as a lily in his crisp new school uniform. By the time the stern-faced, uniformed woman finished conducting his orientation tour, the rest of the children his age were playing on the playground equipment in the schoolyard. Boys and girls in navy blazers and khaki bottoms that matched his own whooped and screamed as they chased one another like the prehistoric humans he had watched a film on in the labs. Not the Cetra, but the others who came before—the cavemen. Neanderthals, they were called.

Savage, tribal, the children divided into groups and attacked one another, simulating warfare with imaginary guns and toy swords. They clashed, screaming like barbarians, before breaking out into giggles often interrupted by further shrieking.

The inside of the school had felt so…safe. So similar in so many ways to the labs, structured and orderly and quiet. It was cold and sterile in a way he was well acquainted with. But this…this _chaos_ was unlike anything he had ever witnessed before. And the adults were just standing by, watching it happen? Were they not concerned that their charges were killing each other?

“Why don’t you go ahead and play with the other children while your father and I finish talking, all right, Sephiroth?” the stern-faced woman asked in that tone he hated, the high-pitched, silly thing she affected when talking to him.

“He isn’t my father,” Sephiroth muttered bitterly, shrinking even further away from the scientist by his side. Hojo was dressed well too today, and he looked wrong outside of a lab coat, like an animal without fur. Sephiroth turned his back and left the company of the adults before Hojo could say something in reply, and his too-sensitive ears could pick up the sounds of an irritated Hojo soothing the matronly woman’s ruffled feathers.

He overheard the word “orphan,” but what was a lie, of course. Hojo had told him about his mother, how special she was, how she was going to change the planet. And Sephiroth was special because he belonged to her. He learned soon that the other children didn’t seem to like how special he was, but they were all dull and boring anyway.

Nevertheless, on that first day when he walked forward into the schoolyard with equal measures of disgust and trepidation, he had been curious and hopeful, a fledgling animal taking its first few cautious steps outside its home. He floundered undeniably, unable to find his footing in that strange, secret, baffling new world of childhood whose language and norms he didn’t understand. It was a world full of frivolous games and nonsense, made-up rules that changed whenever the other children felt like they should, a world of turbulent adolescent emotions and bodily cues he couldn’t read. Facial expressions and body language were nearly alien concepts to him.

Sephiroth had struggled to fit in, and he had only stopped struggling because he had simply stopped trying, learning to revel in his differences, to feel superior for them. He learned to think of himself as _above of_ instead of _isolated from_ his peers. It was easier to cope with that way, pretending his misanthropic tendencies were a choice.

The distance between Sephiroth and his classmates had only grown when he started secondary school and his training for SOLDIER became more and more rigid, taking him away from the school grounds for longer stretches of the day. The killing had changed him too, woken something dark inside him that had perhaps been best left sleeping. He knew other people could sense it; he could smell the fear, after all.

By the time he reached his teenage years, Sephiroth had begun to embrace being alone. After classes, the music room had become his lair, his kingdom, his domain. It was his safe place, the place he went to burrow like a wounded animal whenever he grew upset, playing away his rages. It was the place he went to feel alive whenever the emptiness set in too deeply and kept him from feeling anything at all, and he would sit at the piano bench for hours, chasing elusive tastes of emotion on the notes, just to remind himself that they were real.

When classes and lessons were done for the day, the music room belonged to Sephiroth. It was simply an uncontested fact, one none dared challenge him on. There wasn’t a single member of the faculty or student body brave enough to ask him to share the room. Invasions of the space were usually met with threats of violence, whether implicit or spoken, so it felt strange to him now, inviting this mysterious intruder back into his domain willingly.

“Mr. Kessler” was waiting for the boy when he arrived, at ease in one of the chairs scattered around the space, notebook and pencil in hand as he scratched away at a piece of manuscript paper, jotting down musical notation from what Sephiroth could only assume to be memory. The man shouldn’t have heard him enter, but Vincent glanced up at the impossibly quiet rustle of the door on its well-oiled hinges. The boy had clearly taken the time to shower before returning to the school, evident by his still-damp hair and the distinct lack of beast blood coating his pale skin. For a moment, they just regarded one another.

“I…don’t want to lie to you,” Vincent said at last, “…but there are things that I can’t tell you, not right now. I will do my best not to distort the truth, but I won’t promise to tell it to you either, not yet. Understood?”

“Understood,” Sephiroth echoed.

“Did you decide on a question to ask?” Vincent prompted. He could _see_ the boy wage silent war with himself as he settled on an answer, see the curiosity nearly break him as those mako-bright eyes flickered down to his gauntlet.

“Tell me who you are,” Sephiroth said at last, certainly.

“Vincent Valentine,” Vincent replied without hesitation, but he knew the boy would demand he give him more, and though Vincent couldn’t blame him, it was hard, settling on an answer. _Vincent Valentine—orphan, ex-Turk, monster, murderer, scientific aberration, the man who taught your mother how to recognize different birdsongs. Your father._ “And…I don’t really think I know who I am anymore,” he realized quietly.

“Who are you to _me_?” Sephiroth clarified further.

 _Someone who should have been there for you…_ thought Vincent.

“I’m an old friend of your mother’s,” he offered at length. He caught the surprise in Sephiroth’s eyes at that.

“My…mother?” Sephiroth echoed, green eyes widening just a little. “That isn’t possible.”

Sephiroth had long given up his childish daydreams of his mother as an important, powerful person who no doubt loved him dearly but was too busy out reshaping the Planet to parent him. He would have dismissed the whole thing as more of Hojo’s lies, except that Hojo had said his mother’s genes were responsible for…what he was, the things he could do. He knew now, that the differences between himself and his peers went far deeper than the surface, knew that he was something not quite human, and that must have come from somewhere. Perhaps it _had_ been from his mother. If so, he doubted that she was the sort of person other people just knew, especially not someone who looked like he would have barely been a teenager when Sephiroth had been born.

“I said I would not lie to you,” Vincent said simply. “Believe me or don’t; it’s your choice.”

“How do you know I’m hers?” the boy asked, and Vincent was surprised to find his mind trailing back in time, not to the green haze of a mako tank and Lucrecia’s cries of pain as she pushed, but to a night close to a year before that…

_Vincent looked up from his book at the quiet knock on his door, marking his page before rising to answer it. It was late, the Shinra Manor somber and gloomy in the darkness. He knew before opening it who would be there. She was dressed in a white nightgown, a delicate thing of satin and lace that stopped above her knees, revealing shapely legs and slippered feet._

_Lucrecia stared up at him as he cracked the door open, her gaze a shy, penitent thing. They hadn’t spoken since…_

_“Can I come in?” she asked quietly after a moment, and Vincent swung the door open wide to admit her before locking it behind them. She seemed so small without her heels, and he knew that if he took her into his arms right now and held her close, her body would fit neatly against him, as if she were made for it, her head coming to rest against his chest as he buried his hands in her hair…But Vincent didn’t touch her. He just waited for her to speak._

_“Did I make a mistake, Vincent?” she whispered at last, coming a single step closer to bridging the distance between them._

_“Lu,” he murmured, and he took a step forward to close the rest of the distance, letting his left hand tangle in her hair._

_“Have you been avoiding me?”_

_“No,” he said against her hair. “I just…wanted to give you space if you needed it. I know…neither of us meant for that to happen. I didn’t know how you feel.”_

_“You could have_ asked _me,” she chastised, some of her usual playfulness creeping back into her tone._

_“How do you feel?” Vincent asked, deadpan, and Lucrecia cuffed him gently over the head, laughing._

_“I feel like I hope that meant the same thing to you as it did to me,” she said after a moment with a blush, “and that you’ll want to do it again.”_

_Vincent answered with actions instead of with words, claiming her with a kiss, clutching her close, his right hand fisting in the fabric of her nightgown on her hip. She let out a noise, a satisfied little sigh of delight. Vincent loved that about her—how vocal she was, how easy it was to take her apart. His hand tightened in her hair, tugging, and she gave a quiet moan. Her hands slipped beneath the fabric of his nightshirt, tracing the hard muscles of his stomach and the line of his hip as she pushed the fabric up, insistent. Vincent broke the kiss to slip the garment over his head, tossing it aside before leading her towards his bed and pushing her back into the mattress. She felt so small beneath him as he rolled on top of her, her body a soft and slender in a way he wasn’t accustomed to. He pushed her nightgown up her thigh, lingering over her smooth skin, and she paused to help him take it off._

_A few moments later, they were both together beneath his sheets, skin flush on skin. Petite, delicate hands trailed through Vincent’s hair, skated across his skin. Long, manicured fingernails bit into the flesh of his shoulders as he slid into her, her body arching to his with a gasp. Making love to her was like playing an instrument he was only somewhat familiar with, one whose tonality and depth he was only beginning to discover. He learned as they went—which things made her cry out, high and sweet, eyes fluttering, what things made her clench around him, moans deep and needy, fingers digging into his skin._

_Later, when they were done, they lie in a tangle of limbs on Vincent’s too-small bed, and she whispered the words that would damn him._

_“I think I might love you, Vincent Valentine.”_

_Would it comfort you to know that you were made in love, at least?_ Vincent couldn’t help but wonder as he shook away Lucrecia’s ghost and focused on their son.

“I was there when you were born,” he answered at last, tearing himself from the echoes.

“And why are you here now?” Sephiroth pressed, and there was nothing soft, nothing tender in his voice. Vincent just shook his head though. 

“It’s getting late,” he said. “Tomorrow.”

“You’ll be back tomorrow?” the child asked incredulously, eyes narrowing. Despite that, Vincent couldn’t help but catch the slight undercurrent of hope buried in that scathing tone.

Vincent just smiled at that.

“Of course. I’m your Wutian professor."


	12. There is No Mathematics to Love and Loss

Vincent didn’t go home immediately from the academy. He couldn’t. He needed time to process. His thoughts and emotions were a buzz of white noise inside his head, inaccessible, foreign, the way they always were when he tried to feel too many things at once and just…shut down. It would lift, he knew, a little at a time, his mind slowly feeding him bits of memory and perspective in bite-sized chunks he was less likely to choke on. The chill of fall had settled in the night air truly now, and he blamed the occasional tremors that shook his body on the frigid wind.

His child… _Silver hair gleaming in the sunlight. Sephiroth pressed against him as they played piano, the silent connection he had felt while their fingers had rested on the keys, two halves of a whole, completing one another, at least so long as the score lasted…_

And gods, he was beautiful. Talented, mature, bright, well-spoken. Vincent looked at him and saw everything that he himself could have been, if not for the madness that had slowly poisoned his childhood. At times, Sephiroth almost seemed so normal, a surly teenager trying to feign a devil-may-care attitude, but Vincent had seen too many children destroyed by Shinra not to recognize their handiwork, the marks they’d left on him.

A child shouldn’t been able to recognize him as a killer from the way he moved. A child shouldn’t have been surprised to find an adult who wasn’t afraid of him. A child shouldn’t be so content being alone. He shouldn’t have sounded so mature when he talked.

And that was ignoring everything _wrong_ about him physically. His eyes shouldn’t have glowed green with mako. He shouldn’t have been able to hear the school-bell through a soundproof wall. It went without saying that a child shouldn’t be able to kill a Behemoth. He certainly shouldn’t have done it with a gleam in his eyes and a smile tinged with madness. A child shouldn’t look at any creature and watch the life leave its eyes with joy.

But was it right of him to blame Shinra, to blame Hojo, for his child’s love of killing? _Was_ it how he grew up? Was it the Jenova cells inside him? Or was it simply Vincent’s blood, his own darkness, bleeding over into his son?

Damn it. He had never wanted this.

_The Manor was quiet. Hojo and Gast had gone ahead to the Reactor for the day, but Lucrecia had woken up ill. Vincent had been glad when the other scientists insisted he stay with her. She had been…off lately, not quite herself, and he was growing worried. She seemed to be feeling better, at least—some color had returned to her cheeks, and the greenish tint had left her skin, though she was still too quiet. They were curled up together on a chaise in the parlor room of the manor, Vincent’s head resting in Lucrecia’s lap, reading, as she sipped at the cup of peppermint tea he’d made to calm her stomach and toyed absently with his hair, lost in thought._

_Usually, Vincent liked the quiet, but he still found it strange on her. He was a mere moment away from breaking it himself when she spoke._

_“Have you ever thought about children?” she asked after a while. Vincent closed his book, and his brows drew together a little._

_“What about them?” he asked, utterly unsure where this question had come from. She laughed a little, but the sound wasn’t quite right. Forced, almost._

_“Have you ever thought about having them?” she clarified._

_“No,” he said, the answer firm and immediate._

_“No, you’ve never thought about having them, or—” she began, as if his meaning had possibly been unclear._

_“No,” he interrupted, repeating the word in the same tone. “I don’t want children.”_

_“…Ever?” she asked, no longer looking at him. Vincent sat up, drawing away from her touch. “Why?”_

He should have answered her, but he didn’t know how to _._

_…Vincent was standing in his mother’s study, a whirlwind of sheet music and shattered glass surrounding his panting form. His hands were bloody, but he couldn’t really remember how they had gotten that way. He was trembling, breath coming in sharp, violent gasps._

_“…Vincent?” Grimoire’s voice cut through the haze of crimson engulfing Vincent’s thoughts, the uncontrollable swirl of emotion writhing beneath his skin. Vincent glanced up at him, his mahogany eyes wide and wild. Grimoire took a few cautious steps towards Vincent before kneeling down in front of him. Like this, they were almost at eye-level, and Grimoire studied his son with a sad intensity._

_“Lila was just trying to clean up a bit,” he said gently, reaching out and cautiously resting a hand on his son’s shoulder._

_“She was taking her things!” Vincent had yelled, temper flaring up again at those words, though it was a normal child’s anger now, not…whatever had possessed him to start screaming and throwing things at the housekeeper like a living poltergeist. Grimoire sighed._

_“Vincent…” he began in a quiet, soothing voice. “She isn’t coming back,” he whispered. “And her things…they’re just things. They aren’t her. I should have warned you that I was having Lila box some of your mother’s things up. You can look first, keep whatever you want, but—”_

_“No!” Vincent yelled, taking a sharp step back, away from Grimoire’s comforting hand, and his father flinched a little. Vincent’s breaths were coming in sharp heaves, too shallow, and once again the rage swept him away. He remembered thrashing in his father’s arms as Grimoire restrained him, whispering soothing words into his ear in a shaking voice until Vincent’s anger broke and he’d collapsed, sobbing, into his father’s embrace._

_It was the first break. The first sign of madness. It had been easy enough to minimize it then, to justify it, to fool themselves into thinking it wouldn’t happen again. He was only nine, after all, and he’d lost his mother only a year ago. It made sense that he would be upset that his father had instructed their housekeeper to pack away her things. That first time, it had been easy for Grimoire to dismiss Lila’s abrupt and furious resignation—throwing her key to the house at Grimoire’s chest while informing him, loudly and in no uncertain terms, that his son was the devil—as hysteria._

_It was the first break, but not the last one. Slowly, Vincent came to the realization that there was something_ wrong _with him, something that spiraled a little more out of his control each day. Something dark. Something violent._

_And if it was a part of him, could he pass it on? The way a parent could pass on a disease? Could he share this curse with some unwitting child? Never. He’d been vehemently against it since the day someone had first asked him, as a child himself, how many children he wanted._

If he had told her, about the madness, maybe it would have changed things. Maybe they would have been more careful. Maybe she wouldn’t have slept with him at all. Maybe Hojo never would have shot him. Maybe there wouldn’t be a lonely boy with silver hair…

And for all the misery it would have spared him, would have spared everyone, Vincent could not find it in himself to finish that thought. He could no longer fathom living in a world where this child no longer existed.

With that realization, he had his answer.

None of it mattered anymore—not his fear, or his self-loathing, or the very justified doubts he had about his ability to be a suitable parent. There was no use lingering over those things, because the only thing that mattered right now was the fact that he wanted his son. He wanted to be a father. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter if he felt suited for the role or not, because he was the only one would could possibly fill it.

“Hey,” Veld said quietly as Vincent slipped into the apartment. “You’re home late. Is…everything okay?” He spoke softly, hoping that Vincent could see that he wasn’t trying to pressure him; he just needed to know that he was all right.

“I…don’t know,” Vincent replied, truthfully.

“…Do you want to talk about it?”

Vincent ignored him and made his way towards Veld’s liquor cabinet instead. Giving a little nod, mostly to himself, Veld turned and fetched a pair of glasses for them.

“Thought I drank all the amaretto,” Vincent murmured when he found an unopened bottle.

“You did,” Veld confirmed. “I picked some more up on my way home today. I…thought you might be able to use it.”

Veld didn’t say anything when Vincent just took the whole bottle into the living room with him, just sighed and followed suit, resigning himself to yet another night of trying to drown their problems in alcohol. It didn’t seem to affect Vincent at all, the bastard, but Veld had certainly woken up entirely too many mornings recently, cotton-mouthed, head pounding, feeling every one of his years multiplied exponentially by the number of whiskeys he’d imbibed the night before weighing down on him.

“You met him,” Veld observed after a few drinks. It could be dangerous to press Vincent when he didn’t want to talk, but this worked at times—making causal observations in hopes one might prompt him to respond.

“And he met _me_ ,” Vincent responded. Veld’s eyes widened a little, understanding his partner’s meaning.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asked, cautiously.

“What you said, about the kid not needing normal…” Vincent trailed off, closed his eyes, kept them that way as he spoke. “I watched him kill a fucking Behemoth, Veld,” he whispered. “How was I supposed to react to that? If I’d kept up the act and quaked like a coward, I would have proven myself to be exactly like every other person in his life, and he never would have paid me any mind again.”

Vincent took a deep breath, in and out, realizing that his words were coming out in something closer to a growl. He was grateful his eyes were still closed, knowing they were probably glimmering gold now.

“You’re going back tomorrow, then?” Veld asked after a while, when he could see Vincent visibly relax at last, winning whatever internal battle he was fighting. Vincent just nodded. “I’ll have to find you some more clothes then,” he noted absently. “Vince…this…isn’t a guaranteed thing, you know?” he said a moment later, his voice barely a whisper. “He could say no.”

“I know that,” Vincent whispered, pained.

“…Do you know what you’re going to say to him?”

Vincent reached into his coat pocket, fiddling with something absently for a long while, obviously lost in thought. Finally, he pulled a battered bi-fold from the pocket and flipped it open. He pulled out a picture and handed it to Veld—a polaroid, faded a little with age, creased where it had been folded into Vincent’s wallet for the past thirteen years.

In it, Lucrecia and Vincent were sitting in their picnic spot, bright midday sunlight streaming down over them. They were situated on Lucrecia’s picnic blanket, a battered old embroidered tapestry, thick and stitched with beautifully-detailed but faded flowers. Her hair was down, flowing wild around her slender shoulders. She was leaning towards Vincent, staring up into his eyes, a brilliant smile painted across her lips, and Vincent was smiling back, a soft, small thing half-hidden behind his teacup.

_Gast had lingered back with Vincent while Lucrecia and Hojo went ahead to the reactor, calling ahead and telling the other scientists that he would be right on. When they were alone, Gast cast Vincent a warm, friendly smile, the kind he wasn’t used to getting from civvies who knew what he did for a living, but then, Gast had always treated him differently…_

Like Lucrecia, Vincent had learned, Gast saw Grimoire when he looked at Vincent. He’d realized that, later.

_“I…uh,” Gast tried, then laughed a little, shaking his head. “I was taking a walk by the river yesterday,” he began at last, and Vincent stiffened immediately, waiting for the condemnation to come. But it never did. Gast just smiled again and slipped something out of his pocket, holding it out towards Vincent—a photo, he saw. “I thought that you might want this. It’s a damn good picture.”_

It _was_ a damn good picture. It also happened to be the only picture of himself and Lucrecia that existed in the universe. He had never thanked Gast for that, he realized now with mild regret. He’d been too startled at the time, too afraid that the senior scientist would scold him for sleeping with one of his charges. At the time, he’d just stuffed the photograph in his pocket without a word and turned away before Gast could say more.

“I’m going to tell him the truth,” Vincent said softly.


	13. Somewhere I Belong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, everyone. When I planned out this fic, I only made plans to carry it up to the point that Sephiroth gives Vincent his answer. That said, this chapter is going to wrap things up for now. Thanks so much to everyone who made it all this way!
> 
> Update: As you've likely noticed from the fact that this isn't the last chapter, this was a lie haha.

Vincent was sitting in his classroom at the academy, drinking black coffee and trying to find something useful to busy himself with. Elective classes didn’t start until the next week, so, thank gods, he wasn’t forced to actually attempt to _teach,_ though he suspected that he might have nightmares about the possibility at some point. He settled for outlining the textbooks, jotting down notes and examples for each section. In all reality, he felt a bit guilty for taking this job away from someone who actually intended to work it, and possibly depriving children of a Wutian professor for the beginning of the school year, so he was trying to be as helpful as he could.

Three train tickets to the coast burned like hot lead in his pocket, the same way the photograph they were nestled next to did.

One of the previous occupants of this room had left behind a few records and a player, and he’d put on a collection of classical to listen to as he worked. He knew he had locked the door, so he was surprised to feel another presence in the room. He was even more surprised when he looked up, expecting to see an administrator or a member of the janitorial staff—the only other people in the building with keys to this classroom—and met Sephiroth’s brilliant eyes instead. The music must have drowned out the sounds of him picking the lock, then. Absently, Vincent wondered where he had picked that up. Shinra training? Or was it simply a skill learned as a result of typical boyhood mischief?

“Good morning, _Professor_ ,” Sephiroth said teasingly with a sharp smile.

“Vincent is fine, so long as we’re alone,” Vincent said with a smile, a genuine one, not reacting to the teenager’s bait. Some warmth entered Sephiroth’s smile then, and he approached the desk Vincent was settled behind, collecting a chair for himself along the way. “I really should chastise you for skipping classes,” Vincent observed after a moment.

“But you aren’t going to,” Sephiroth said as he settled down in his chair across from Vincent, crossing right leg over left knee and leaning back, comfortable. Vincent couldn’t help but chuckle at that.

“Confident in that, aren’t you?” he observed. It was Sephiroth’s turn to laugh this time, and part of Vincent wondered if the boy noticed how much his chuckle sounded like Vincent’s own.

“Yesterday you helped me break and enter into a restricted area of the Shinra Building,” the boy observed. “Somehow, I’ve gathered that rules and propriety are not exactly among your top concerns.”

“I suppose that is a reasonable observation,” Vincent agreed.

“Are you ready to answer my question?” the boy asked. Slowly, Vincent nodded.

“I am. But—” Sephiroth’s eyes narrowed a little at this “—if I answer your questions, you have to answer one of mine.”

Sephiroth pondered over that in silence for a while, weighing his decision. At last, he gave a little nod.

“You said you would tell me why you are here,” Sephiroth reminded Vincent, as if he might somehow have forgotten.

“We could just talk for a while first, if that sounds all right to you,” Vincent suggested. He wished that he hadn’t promised the boy he would tell him today. He wanted to drag this out a little longer, get to know one another better. He was sure it would be easier to convince Sephiroth to come with him were he not a complete stranger.

“Talk about what?” the boy asked suspiciously, arching one delicate silver eyebrow.

“Anything. What are you interested in?”

“Meaningful conversation,” Sephiroth said pointedly, and Vincent gave a small nod.

“Meaning is, unfortunately, a subjective thing,” Vincent intoned sagely. “Some people, for instance, find discussions on topics such as metaphysics utterly useless, since such discussions are purely theoretical. Those people might consider worldly topics like politics more worth considering. Some people only find meaning in things they can relate back to themselves. So, alas, though I’ve no desire to bore you with conversation you deem worthless, you will have to be a bit more specific.”

“Just…don’t bother asking what teachers I like, or who my best friends are, or whatever,” the youth grumbled in response.

“Had I somehow given you the impression that I’ve mistaken you for a child?” Vincent arched an eyebrow, and he saw Sephiroth try to hide a pleased smile, looking a bit less begrudging as he turned his gaze towards Vincent, waiting. “I’ve seen a Behemoth take out a team of armed men before, you know.”

“Were you scared for me?” the boy asked, a little tease in his tone. “You should have been scared for the Behemoth.”

“I see that now. You must have trained for a long time, to be as skilled as you are,” Vincent observed.

_Sephiroth had been five the day they had first placed a weapon in his hand and left him in the arena with virtually no explanation. He held the edged sword loosely in his hand, brain numb with confusion, stomach twisting in dread._

_He whirled at the sound of a gate opening, turning to see a Security Officer opening the door of a large steel kennel. A low growl rumbled from within, and he had backed up a step in fear at the noise. A Guard Dog launched from the crate, snarling, saliva dripping from its jowls, and began to circle Sephiroth. He raised his sword threateningly towards the monster, but it continued to inch in closer, its circles drawing tighter and tighter, until finally it paused, only a body-length away from the child, and coiled up to pounce._

_Sephiroth clutched his sword tighter, waiting for the beast to spring…_

_Sephiroth’s sword dug into the monster’s stomach, and the monster’s teeth dug into his flesh. He cried out as it clamped down on his shoulder, twisting his blade in the creature’s guts. It cried out in agony and released him, staggering back but not giving up the fight. It couldn’t seem to find the strength to jump anymore, and he jabbed at again as it crept in closer to him, sword tip sticking it just below the eye. It went on like that for a few more minutes, the beast darting in, Sephiroth stabbing, the creature staggering back as it howled in pain, until finally it just…collapsed, too weak with blood loss to stand. He came towards it then, still careful of its powerful paws, and put the beast out of its misery._

_Later, when his wound was being examined and stitched in medical, Sephiroth listened in as an unfamiliar voice screamed at Hojo in the next room._

_“He is a child!” A man’s voice. Sephiroth could tell that much at least._

_“He is my research subject!” Hojo countered, his voice going slightly nasally the way it did when he yelled. “I will do with him whatever I deem necessary to progress my goals!”_

_“And how the fuck was this necessary, Hojo?” demanded the unfamiliar voice._

_“To establish baseline data for the child’s combat instincts!” Hojo huffed as if it should have been obvious. “I remind you again, this is not your department, Director Tuesti. If you do not cease your meddling in affairs that do not concern you…”_

_The voices had begun to fade then, moving away as the two men started down the hall. Despite the protests of whoever this Director Tuesti was, Sephiroth was escorted back to the arena as soon as his wound had healed…_

“I started training when I was five,” Sephiroth replied at last, finally answering Vincent’s implied question.

“Not exactly typical, even for Shinra,” Vincent stated, his tone flat, trying to keep his temper in check.

“You see enough to know I’m not a child, but you’re blind enough to think anything about me is _typical_?” Sephiroth pointed out the lapse in logic. Vincent closed his eyes then, because no, nothing about him was typical, and that fact made him utterly _furious_ in a way he hadn’t expected.

“You’re right, of course,” Vincent admitted after a while, when he thought he could trust his voice again. “It seems that Shinra has put you through a lot. I can’t help but wonder…how do you feel about the company?”

Sephiroth closed his eyes, his face suddenly going utterly blank, a porcelain mask.

_Sephiroth’s earliest memories were of a glass tank—a holding cell for research specimens. The laboratory hadn’t been set up for human habitation, and though it would never be remotely comfortable, never be anything that remotely felt like home, the addition of a residency quarters had drastically improved his life. He could still recall how much he hated it, a human toddler, locked in a glass tube in a room filled with monsters contained in tubes just like his own._

He can’t remember a time that there hadn’t been experiments. Endless medical testing. The sting of needles. The sterile scent of an operating room. These things had been familiar to him the whole of his life, the way grass and blue skies were familiar to other children. They were things he didn’t feel the need to question. They were simply fundamental. Pain was part of life. If asked, he would have been incapable of telling someone when he first had an IV line put in.

But he vividly remembered the first time he’d been injected with mako.

_Almost a year after he started academy, Hojo came for him. Seeing Hojo in and of itself wasn’t anything unusual. The scientist was by at least once a week to run routine tests and collect the data he had trained Sephiroth to record daily himself—resting heartrate, weight, calorie consumption, how long it took for the small puncture-wounds he carefully self-inflicted with a lancet each night to heal._

_But this time was different. This time, instead of simply visiting, Hojo took him away. It wasn’t the first time this had happened either. Hojo had taken him only a week ago to do “establish a baseline reflex response time” with a machine he couldn’t carry all the way here. That hadn’t been so bad, but Hojo had made it clear that Sephiroth would be returning to his care for an extended period this time. That had made Sephiroth furious and terrified all at once, but he tried his best to keep both emotions off his face. No matter how much he disliked school sometimes, no matter how much of an outcast he was here, it was so much better than being with Hojo. He didn’t want to go back to the labs, to his sterile white cubicle, but he had no choice but to do as Hojo said, so he followed willingly when prompted to, knowing resistance would only make it worse._

_They had taken him straight to an operating room, where a table, tilted at an angle and riddled with restraints, stood beside a contraption that looked similar to an IV rig, but he’d seen IV rigs enough times that this wasn’t quite what it was. Instead of a drip bag, there was a glass tank that glowed with a strange green substance attached near the top of the pole._

_“Undress and get on the table for me, Sephiroth,” Hojo commanded as he collected the boy’s medical files from his cabinet in order to update them. Sephiroth obeyed hesitantly, eyeing the restraints dripping from the operating table warily. Still, he placed his feet on the solid platform at the bottom and leaned back against the table as Hojo instructed._

_When Hojo began tightening the first strap, Sephiroth couldn’t remain quiet._

_“Do I really have to be tied down, Sir?’ he asked in a small voice. “I promise I won’t run.”_

_“It is not you running that I am concerned about,” Hojo snapped, moving on to the next restraint. “It is your inability to remain still through the procedure, and the possible jeopardy that puts you, myself, and my work into that I am concerned with. This will be quite painful,” he warned as he tightened the last strap around Sephiroth’s wrist. A nurse approached to check his vitals._

_“His heartrate is extremely elevated, sir,” she noted as she jotted down the numbers._

_“An emotional response, nothing more,” Hojo said dismissively. “Set the IV line.”_

_The nurse put the IV line just below his collarbone this time instead of in his hand the way she usually did. After the IV was set, Hojo made his way to a computer attached to the not-quite-IV pole and began keying in inputs. An electric hum rose from the glowing green tank as something switched on, and Sephiroth realized as the green liquid began to stream slowly down the line towards his body that it was powered by a pump._

_“Nurse, take over here,” Hojo instructed, stepping away. “I will instruct you to adjust the dosage’s flow as needed._

_The first bit of green hit Sephiroth’s veins, and he cried out in pain. It felt like acid, like it was eating him away from the inside, and as it reached his heart and spread quickly from there to his extremities, the pain engulfed his entire body. He whimpered a little, squirming against his bonds as if trying to escape his own skin._

_“Up the dosage by 50cc per second,” Hojo instructed the nurse. The motorized hum of the machine grew louder, and it began to pump the glowing green liquid into Sephiroth’s veins with increasing speed. Another wave of pain washed over him, exponentially worse than the one previous, and he screamed, the sound a high, agonized, animal thing. He was dimly aware of Hojo taking his vitals again before repeating those awful words—up the dosage._

_He didn’t know how long it went on. It could have been an hour. Or two. Or twelve. It could have been a day, a month. It felt like an eternity. When the tank was finally empty and Hojo switched off his machine, he took his time releasing Sephiroth from the table, but the boy didn’t care. Not now. He was pretty sure the restraints were the only things holding him remotely upright anyway. Hojo had the nurse release him and maneuver the six-year-old into a wheelchair that swallowed his small frame._

_He had learned soon after that the torment wasn’t over. The pain started up again as the mako began changing him, burning away old blood and muscle and nervous tissue and recreating it, making it stronger. He burned with fever, his body attempting to fight off the invader. But mako wasn’t a disease, and his immune system could do nothing against it. Still, it made him burn. He lived in strange fever-dreams until the mako conquered his immune system and his temperature returned to normal. No, not quite normal. Just a degree or two hotter than that, something that would never change again._

_In all, he spent two weeks in the Shinra Building recovering from the procedure. He no longer felt like the person he had been before it. Everything was different now. No, that wasn’t right. Nothing had changed. Everything simply_ looked _different, felt different, sounded different. His body felt wrong, a strength he’d never had before frequently taking him by surprise._

_It wasn’t until he returned to school that he had access to a mirror, and as he stared into his foggy reflection in the bathroom mirror the night he returned to the academy, he understood the looks the other children had been casting him all day. He’d thought it was just because he’d been gone so long, but no, it was this—the strange, luminous flecks of green that had invaded his eyes._

Rage almost took him, but Sephiroth checked his temper at the last moment, instead channeling that malice into a predator’s smile, glancing up at Vincent from behind long lashes. There was something familiar in his eyes, Vincent recognized with dread, the glimmer of bloodlust that danced in Sephiroth’s eyes a friend he knew well.

“Shinra?” he echoed with a voice as sharp as that deadly smile. “I’m going to burn it to the ground.”

Sephiroth caught it, the gleam of vicious satisfaction in Vincent’s scarlet eyes, and he regarded the man curiously.

“What did they do to hurt you?” he asked Vincent after a moment.

“…Shinra’s hurt everyone,” Vincent replied.

“Not everyone would light up like a kid on Midwinter’s morning at the thought of burning an entire organization, an organization they rely on, to ash,” Sephiroth pointed out, and, okay, the kid had him there.

“I was a Turk,” Vincent began after a while. “Got picked up by the company when I was twelve, and I belonged to them for more than a decade. I got put on an assignment guarding some scientists. It should have been easy, but one of them took a disliking to me. Shot me in the chest, convinced everyone I was dead, and kept me to experiment on.” He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt a little, showing the boy some of the scarring along his collarbone. “That’s the answer to your other question too, by the way,” he realized, “about my hand. The short of it, at least.”

“And what about the question I came here for?” Sephiroth prompted. Vincent sighed, hand slipping into his pocket to fiddle with the photograph there.

“I mentioned that I knew your mother,” Vincent said quietly, finally pulling the photo out and passing it over to Sephiroth. He had enough of Lucrecia’s look about him that he recognized himself in her, Vincent saw as his fingers lingered over her face. “I was there when you were born, but after that, I was…out for a while, because of what he did to me. When I woke up…I won’t make excuses for it. I should have been there for you. I should have started searching the moment I was conscious. Instead, I just…went back to sleep. It felt like a long time, but I never expected that when I was finally woken up, more than a decade would have passed. That, more than anything, is the thing I will never forgive myself for.

“I’m here because I want to give you something I’ve never had in life, Sephiroth, something I suspect you’ve had little enough of yourself—choices.”

“And what choices can you give me?” Sephiroth asked after a long silence, finally turning his eyes back towards Vincent.

“I can get you out of here. You can leave with me, go somewhere we can disappear.”

“Freedom, but under your control, huh?” Sephiroth asked sardonically.

“Freedom under my _protection_ ,” Vincent countered. “Shinra will hunt you. Endlessly. It’s what I used to do for a living, track down people like us, put a bullet in them, more often than not. I know how to avoid them, and I will not allow you on your own until I am certain that you know as well. I have no desire to control you; I just don’t want to see you end up back at Shinra, or worse, dead.”

“And you’re really doing all of this because you were friends with my mother a decade and a half ago?” Sephiroth asked after mulling over the words for some time.

“No,” Vincent answered quietly. “That isn’t the only reason.”

“Do you care to enlighten me about the others?”

“It was Hojo,” Vincent whispered after a while, “who did this to me. For starters, I couldn’t bear the thought of someone else being subject to his ‘science.’”

_A tilted table in a sterile operating room. The green glow of mako. Agony in his veins. The hum of an electric trimmer. Watching his newly-regrown hair fall to the floor in tufts of silver. The faint scars that laced his skull when he looked in the mirror, no longer hidden, the humiliation of returning to school with them showing…_

“Sephiroth.”

Vincent’s voice came to the youth quietly through the fog, and he realized that Vincent had been repeating his name for some time. He was kneeling in the floor beside Sephiroth’s chair now, though the boy couldn’t remember seeing him move. He glanced down at the man, eyes hazy, half there in the classroom, half lost in his memories. Vincent’s hand reached out to grip his, cold and strong and covered with silver scars and _real_.

“Look at me,” Vincent commanded gently, waiting for the boy to turn wide, mako-green eyes on him, and when Sephiroth finally did, his pupils were slit like a cat’s eye. He didn’t know what to think of that, so he stored the information away for later and ignored it for now, focusing on the problem he could recognize, the problem he could help the child solve.

This kind of madness, at least, the kind that caused a person to get so lost in the pain of some past trauma, wasn’t Vincent’s fault, he knew, wasn’t unique to whatever curse tainted his blood. Most of the other Turks did this too, sometimes, even Veld—slipped into the suffering of some past torture so seamlessly that it seemed real again, and they were all rather well-practiced at helping one another out of it.

“I don’t know where you are right now, but I can help you get out,” Vincent murmured soothingly. “Focus on your breathing. Try to match it to mine.” Gently, he pulled the boy’s hand towards him, resting it on his chest so Sephiroth could feel the pattern of his breaths. As commanded, the boy closed his eyes and tried to focus on copying it. Vincent reached across his desk and picked up his coffee mug, holding it closer to the boy’s face. “Can you smell that?” A little nod from the boy, and Vincent held the cup there for a moment, letting him inhale. “What do you hear? Try to find five things. Say them out loud if you can.”

“Your voice,” Sephiroth said haltingly after a moment.

“One,” Vincent counted for him.

“The music.” 

“Two.”

“The needle on the player scratches a little.”

“Three.” There was a longer pause this time before Sephiroth spoke.

“Your heartbeat,” he whispered.

“Four.”

“A bird. Outside.”

“Five. Good,” Vincent praised in a murmur. Sephiroth’s eyes slid open to meet his again, pupils circular once more, gaze clear and firmly present in the current moment. After a brief moment of eye contact, the boy looked away, a faint flush coloring his cheeks.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for,” Vincent interrupted firmly. “The hurt that others do to us is _not_ our fault.”

“Thank you,” the boy murmured after a moment. “You were telling me why you’re so intent on helping me,” he reminded Vincent. “Hojo, and…”

Vincent thought for a long while, deciding how to come upon the truth gently.

“I remember what it’s like to be alone,” Vincent murmured after a while. “And I have never been a social person, but it is a thing I wouldn’t wish on…well, all right, I might wish it upon my worst enemy, but I’m a bad person for it. When I was pressed into the Turks…I found a family. It turns out that makes all the difference. Even though we were all still trapped by Shinra, for the first time in my life, I wasn’t miserable.” Vincent took a deep breath, let it out in a shudder. “There isn’t much I can offer you, Sephiroth,” he admitted. “I can’t offer you stability. I can’t offer security. I can’t offer you a school like this one. I can’t even promise you a piano. If you come with me, we will likely end up on the run, travelling from one isolated place to another. But I can offer you family, if you want it.”

“Is that something you can just offer someone?” Sephiroth wondered aloud after a moment.

“I suppose it depends on how you define family,” Vincent mused. “I won’t deny that blood ties can be strong, but I think that largely…family is a thing that we choose. My partner, Veld, is just as much, if not more, family to me as my father was. Even now, even though Shinra would kill to have me in their hands, I still trust the other Turks implicitly. We are a family, and our loyalty has always been to each other above all else. There is something comforting in that, in being able to rely on other people without question, without having to weigh out what they hope to gain.”

“Why would anyone do something when they don’t have anything to gain?” Sephiroth asked, tilting his head in that avian way of his. Vincent closed his eyes.

“Because that is what you do when you love someone,” Vincent explained quietly. “That’s what you do when you’re family.”

“I’m no one to you,” Sephiroth whispered. “I’m not a Turk. You don’t even know me. You knew my mother—who I’ve never met before, who I’ve never seen before today—before I was born.” Sephiroth paused to take a breath, but Vincent interrupted him before he could continue.

“I’m your father,” he breathed in a voice so quiet most people wouldn’t have been able to hear it over the music, but he watched Sephiroth react to the words like he’d been zapped with an electro rod, body tense as a spring, eyes wide and shocked.

“What,” Sephiroth said, not quite a question, almost soundlessly.

“I had no idea when I started looking for you. I just knew that you were Lucrecia’s, and I cared for her dearly. I couldn’t bear the thought of her child in the clutches of Shinra, of Hojo, but then I saw you and…” Vincent trailed off, and Sephiroth glanced back down to the photo in his hands. Vincent saw the moment the boy recognized the resemblance there, not to his mother, but to his father, to him. “Things didn’t work, and she married someone else. I never thought that…She never told me…”

The music on the record player fizzled to a dull crackle as the record ran out, needle left scratching at the edge. Vincent didn’t stand to flip it over.

“I’ve no right to lay claim to that title by blood alone,” Vincent said after a while, his voice a quiet, toneless thing. “In fact, I suspect I’ve missed any opportunity to lay claim to that title at all. That isn’t what I’m here to ask you for. I just…want to do what’s best for you.”

“How do you think you know what’s best for me?” Sephiroth asked in the same not-tone, words falling from numbed lips.

“Tell me, Sephiroth. The first time you killed another person, was it an accident?” Vincent didn’t ask the boy whether or not he _had_ killed another person before. He knew the answer, somehow.

_It wasn’t the first time Sephiroth had fought other people—there was his sword instructor, occasional Security Officers in the arena he used less-than-lethal weapons while sparring with, even the rare promising recruit from academy—but they had all worn fencing masks to hide their faces and were commanded not to speak to him unless absolutely necessary. Other than the occasional reflexive curse, Sephiroth had never heard a voice other than his sword instructor’s in battle._

_It made his experience in the arena that day utterly alien from the start._

_The man who stood across from him didn’t wear a mask, and he stared at Sephiroth with wild eyes the boy would never forget, bloodshot and pale blue, not blue like the sky, but blue like the milky, despondent eyes of a dead fish. His smile had been an awful thing, full of malice and decay._

_There were no practice weapons today. There was no katana today either, just an assortment of street weapons—a nail-studded bat, a trench knife, a karambit, brass knuckles tipped in five-inch spikes, a crowbar, a machete—weapons meant to kill slowly and brutally, to maim. No clean mimicry of combat to be had here, no feigned swordplay. A Security Officer uncuffed the man, an electro rod guiding him out into the arena towards Sephiroth instead of back towards the tunnel into the Shinra Building._

_That rotten grin spreading, the man approached Sephiroth, picking up the spiked baseball bat. Sephiroth dodged nimbly when the man swung it at him, quickly taking a few steps back._

_“I don’t understand,” the child said numbly, and the man cackled, the sound something maniacal and hollow, hollow like the sockets around his dead-fish eyes._

_“What’s not to understand, you little shit?” the man sneered, swinging the bat at Sephiroth again. “I kill you, I’m a free man. The Man says so.”_

_“Man?” echoed Sephiroth dumbly. “What man?” The man scoffed, rolling his eyes, swung the bat again. Sephiroth dodged nimbly once more._

_“You know kid. The Man. Whatever. I ain’t got time for this shit. Ask someone when you get to hell, you little Shinra freakshow.”_

_Sephiroth rolled under the man’s next strike, snatching up the crowbar in his right hand and the karambit in his left. He continued to dodge the man’s wild blows when he could, knowing missing him entirely would tire the man more than Sephiroth blocking his strikes. When he_ was _forced to block, he caught the man’s baseball bat on his crowbar, forced it up, or to the side, and darted in close, karambit slicing through flesh._

_Sephiroth felt the blood bloom on his hands, warm and vital. He could hear the man’s pulse thudding, galloping and arrhythmic, could see the pain drowned out by the madness in his eyes. With numbed shock, he realized that he was going to have to kill this man to stop him. Hojo had given the man some sort of experimental drug, probably, something that heightened his reflexes and pain tolerance. He wouldn’t stop until the blood loss put him down._

_One last time, Sephiroth caught the man’s bat on his crowbar, forcing it out wide as he stepped in, whisper-close and buried his karambit to the hilt in the man’s stomach. The man let out a startled noise, somewhere between a gasp and a grunt, and Sephiroth dragged the knife through his flesh, gutting him like a fish. Blood and entrails spattered Sephiroth’s feet. The man’s dead-fish eyes were wide and horrified, as if he hadn’t quite realized what had happened to him yet, but he was starting to have his suspicions He put a trembling hand to his stomach, slowly trying to put his organs back where they belonged. Sephiroth stepped in closer and slit his throat. Blood splashed across his face._

_He watched the light fade from the man’s eyes, and it had brought him the same joy then that it did now, a lightning-bolt of pleasure racing down his spine. When the gate to the arena opened, Sephiroth whirled on the pair of Security Officers, advancing a few steps, weapon still poised to strike, before he realized what he was doing and dropped the blood-slick knife and crowbar…_

“An accident?” Sephiroth echoed after a while, recalling the question Vincent had asked him. “No. But I had no choice.”

“It still felt just as good as killing that Behemoth did yesterday. Better even,” Vincent remarked, and it was a statement, not a question. “You dreamed about it afterwards. Itched for it. You could catch the echo of the feeling sometimes, the same way your mind might half-conjure a scent you remember strongly—”

“How do you know this?” Sephiroth interrupted in a whisper. Vincent was silent for a beat, looking at him with somber eyes.

“Because,” he said at last, “it was the same way for me. I’m not suggesting that I know what’s best for you because I’m older than you are, or because I believe I’m smarter than you are, or out of some misplaced paternal powerplay. I’m saying it because I _understand_ that darkness in you,” Vincent admitted. “I can help you navigate it, can show you how to keep it from consuming you. It’s…the least I owe you.”

The record scratched away. In the distance, a school bell rang. There were footsteps in the hallway. Voices. Children laughing. Classes were out for the day. Usually, Sephiroth would retreat to the music room, spend his afternoon in solitude. Instead, he met Vincent’s eyes again and replied.

“You really want me to just…run away with you?” Sephiroth asked after a long while. Vincent was silent again for a long while. He closed those brilliant scarlet eyes of his, and he was still for so long that Sephiroth had almost started to wonder if he’d somehow fallen asleep before he spoke.

“I get to ask you one question today, remember?” Vincent said at long last, finally opening his eyes. He slipped off his glasses and set them aside on his desk, focusing intently on Sephiroth.

“Go ahead and ask it then,” the boy said after a brief pause.

“…Are you happy here?” Vincent asked at last, seriously.

“ _Happy_ …here?” Sephiroth echoed. He thought about it, long and hard. Slowly shook his head.

“Then what do you have to lose? This life will be here waiting for you if you decide you want it back. You can blame everything on me. Say I kidnapped you.” Vincent watched the boy for a moment, watched him weighing his options. He was considering it. “Don’t you want to see the world? Do you really want to be a killer for the company? A Shinra bloodhound?”

“…Where would we go?” Sephiroth questioned at long last. Vincent removed the tickets from his pocket and presented them to Sephiroth.

“The coast first. We would take the train to Kalm, board a passenger ship bound for Bone Village. From there, we would make our way to the Forgotten City on foot.”

“There are three tickets here,” observed Sephiroth.

“My partner, Veld, would come with us,” Vincent admitted. “You’ll like him. He’s a terrible influence.”

“I…need to think,” Sephiroth murmured. He was paler than usual as he rose from his seat, placing the tickets on the desk and turning away. Vincent didn’t bother calling after him. He knew where to find the boy when he was ready.

The music room failed to work its usual magic on Sephiroth, who was still agitated even after he’d ensconced himself within its hallowed walls. He settled at his piano and closed his eyes, playing a piece from memory as he tried to calm the swirl of his thoughts.

_Sitting alone at recess, reading as he watched the other children play. Stares and whispers in the hallways. Doing group projects alone because the other children didn’t want to work with him, because they were afraid of him, the same way his teachers were. The way Vincent wasn’t…_

_‘I can offer you family, if you want it….’_

_Blood dripping from the edge of his sword, spattering his face. The arena. The feeling of his blade cleaving through flesh. Killing, not for pleasure, not out of necessity, but because Hojo said so, and he did as the man said, unfailing, like a trained attack dog. .._

_‘Do you really want to be a killer for the company? A Shinra bloodhound?.. ‘_

_Watching the light fade from his opponent’s eyes like the snuffing of a candle. Electricity jolting through him at the feeling. The thrill of the kill. The way some part of him yearned for the bloodshed. It scared even Hojo, he knew. Even the mad scientist was concerned about how bloodthirsty his creation could be…_

_‘I understand that darkness in you…’_

_A picture, burning in his trouser pocket, of a pretty brunette sitting on a picnic smiling at a handsome, dark-haired man. Vincent smiled back at her, eyes warm mahogany and filled with adoration. Sephiroth had never seen someone look at another person that way. What would it feel like, to have someone look at him like that, like they wanted to give him the world, face open and welcoming…_

_‘l’m your father…’_

Sephiroth slammed his hands down on the keys, scattering the melody into a discord of frustration at his music’s inability to silence the voices in his head. He simply sat for a moment, hunched over the keys, breathing hard, before he straightened and slowly began thumbing through the sheet music for a new piece, one that might prove challenging enough to distract him. He noticed something tucked into the front cover of the book Vincent had chosen a song from the day before, and he pulled out a few piece of manuscript paper, filled with hand-written musical notation in a handwriting he didn’t recognize. He remembered returning to the music room the day before, finding his mysterious new Wutian professor scrawling out music on paper just like this, and he couldn’t help but wonder…

He arranged the mysterious sheet music in front of him and began to play, quickly becoming swept away in the haunting, complex melody, and for a few blessed moments he lost himself to the music. When he finished the score, his mind felt clear enough to think again.

He had read about the world outside of Midgar, had dreamed of it as a younger boy. When Hojo had first insisted he learn Wutian as a child, citing a future need for him to speak the language, he had been so excited, sure that Hojo was planning an upcoming trip. It wasn’t until he’d grown a bit older that he realized Hojo had been speaking in the context of a budding war, that if he were ever to visit Wutai, it would be to burn it down.

On just the trip to their destination alone, Sephiroth would see more of the world than he ever had before in his life. And he _liked_ Vincent. He couldn’t deny that. He liked the way the man spoke to him, the way he treated him as an equal.

He pulled the old polaroid Vincent had given him out of his pocket, staring down at it as he lost himself in thought.

“I was a different person in that picture.”

Vincent’s voice came from the doorway, quiet and velvet. Sephiroth didn’t look back at him. He hadn’t heard the man enter, the same way he hadn’t the first time. He’d thought, then, that he had simply failed to pay adequate attention, but he recognized now with certainty that the man was just that quiet.

Vincent wasn’t human, Sephiroth realized. No more human than he was. Right. He’d mentioned that Hojo had gotten hold of him. Two of a kind, weren’t they?

“You look different,” Sephiroth said at last. Turned to meet Vincent’s scarlet gaze, steady and intense and so very different from the rich mahogany in the photo. There was still warmth there, though, buried somewhere beneath the apprehension.

“That was _before…._ Before he made me what I am now,” Vincent explained, approaching slowly, cautiously. “Don’t get me wrong; I was a monster there too—Hojo just took the beast in me and gave it form—but I was still…. _human_ there.”

Sephiroth said nothing, just moved over to the left side of the piano bench, giving Vincent room to sit. The man took the hint, but apprehension still twisted his gut as he settled down beside the child. Sephiroth perched his left hand on the keys, took a deep breath, and started playing. It was the score he left—a requiem—a somber, delicate thing Grimoire had once loved to hear him play. Vincent hesitated for only the briefest moment before picking up the right-hand part. A time or two, while playing the middle notes, their fingers almost brushed.

And when Sephiroth looked over at Vincent as they played, the man was studying him with a familiar expression, soft and warm, the way he looked at the woman in the photograph. He wasn’t looking at Sephiroth like a lab specimen, like personified data. He wasn’t looking at him like he was a monster, an aberration, something to be feared.

And when they finished, Sephiroth didn’t flinch away from the cool, gentle hand that rose to push his silver hair back behind one ear. The fleeting touch was alien, but not entirely unwelcome, and part of him had to admit he liked the feeling, the fading tingle it left in his nerves.

“Okay,” Sephiroth said at last, and his voice was small—not the voice of a SOLDIER, of a monster, of a weapon—the voice of a child taking his first leap of faith. “When do we leave?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, like I said, that's a wrap here. Part of me honestly wants to write a follow-up fic to this, but I'm the sort of person who needs a clear end goal to work towards and can't quite figure out what the next big milestone should be. Hopefully inspiration will strike, though, because at this point I'm honestly very emotionally attached to these boys.


	14. The Undeveloped Story

“I don’t like that look on your face,” Tseng murmured that morning as he slipped into Veld’s office, two cups of coffee in hand. He placed one of them on the desk in front of Veld, taking a cautious sip of the other before deciding it was cool enough and taking a larger drink.

“Sit down, Tseng.” Veld couldn’t look at him while he talked.

“I _really_ don’t like that.” Tseng sighed and settled down across from Veld. “Boss—”

“If things go how they’re supposed to, we’re leaving the city tomorrow,” Veld interrupted. No sense in dragging it out. Rip it off like a bandage. “Everything’s been arranged.” He glanced up at Tseng, immediately regretted it. He’d seen the kid take a kick to the balls better than that.

Tseng reached out and gripped his coffee mug like a lifeline, like the only thing anchoring him to reality. His hands were shaking as he raised it to his lips, badly enough that he spilled some when he set it back down. He produced a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping the mess away with swift efficiency and pulling himself back together at the same time. It still felt like his foundations had crumbled beneath his feet, but he kept it off his face.

“It’s okay to be upset,” Veld assured him, the façade doing absolutely nothing to fool him. “Fuck, I’ll even let you throw a punch if you want. First one’s free.”

Tseng said nothing. Veld sighed, lit a cigarette, offered Tseng the pack. He didn’t smoke, but he looked like he could use it. Tseng confirmed this when he took one, lighting it with hands that barely even trembled. For good measure, he rummaged in his desk drawer, pulled out a flask of liquor, and dumped a generous amount into their coffee.

“I’ll make sure the Board knows this position is yours,” Veld said at last. “I’ll make sure the other Turks know too. The President knows where our loyalties lie; he won’t fight us on it. We’re taking the train to Kalm, so do what you can to make sure whoever comes to look for us goes the other way.”

“Where will you go?”

“The Forgotten City, for now. If something changes, I’ll let you know,” Veld assured.

“You’ll let me know regardless,” Tseng demanded firmly. “You’ll write as soon as you can.”

“Yeah,” Veld agreed. “Just…they’ll be watching you. Like I said, Shinra knows the Turks are only really loyal to the Turks. They’ll likely suspect you had something to do with this.”

“Which I did,” Tseng observed.

“Which you did,” Veld confirmed nonchalantly, “but if they ever find that out I will personally drag you out of the Lifestream so I can kill you again. But they won’t find out, because you’re going to be careful, right?”

“Am I ever anything otherwise?” Tseng asked quietly. “Veld…” He paused, blinked a few times trailed off. “Drinks tonight, then?” He asked at last, That wasn’t what he’d wanted to say, Veld knew, but he didn’t press him.

“Depends on how things go with the kid,” Veld murmured. He’d like nothing more than to go spend one last night getting shit-faced in Wall Market, but Vincent needed him, and he couldn’t leave his partner to cope with this all alone, especially if things went poorly.

“At least a few beers after work, then,” Tseng insisted, “and you come by my place later if you can.” Veld sighed. He couldn’t say no to that, not when it was practically the last request Tseng would ever make of him as his partner.

“All right,” he agreed, and fuck he owed the kid so much more than that, but they didn’t have the time. He tried to search for the words, the ones that would somehow convey to Tseng just how much he and their partnership, meant to him, but he was still looking for them when Tseng stood, grabbed his coffee, and with a little nod, left his office.

Right. They’d save this for later, then, when they were both a few drinks into their feelings and the words came easier. Still, he took out pen and paper—good paper, from the stationary set some well-meaning secretary had gotten him for his birthday years ago—because he had to get his goodbyes right this time.

Their usual place, a bar a metro stop away from the Shinra Building, was darker and quieter than usual. Outside, rain came down in sheets, dampening the little sunlight that usually managed to make its way into the bar’s gloomy interior. It suited them both fine. They came here for the quiet, after all. It had been their spot as long as they’d been partners; they’d stumbled upon it after their first mission together.

It was that perfect median between dive bar and ritzy—not so swanky that the patrons took offense to killers and criminals mixing and mingling, but upscale enough that you weren’t going to accidentally get caught up in a bar fight or take a knife to your back while you were pissing in the alley. It was patronized mostly by blue collar folks, people who did Shinra’s grunt work, and yeah, the two Turks may have been wearing suits, but they figured they still fit in in that regard. Today, though, they were the only two people there, the weather too dismal for most sane people to brave the storm for mediocre beer.

The rain had also made it pretty easy to ditch work early. The Security Officers could deal with any poor criminal that was desperate enough to break the law in this weather. If they were that down on their luck, they weren’t a threat to the company. He and Tseng worked on intel and coordinating the other Turks now more than anything else, usually taking up spontaneous cases the others were too busy to deal with.

It meant the two of them had the luxury of time, and they had been nursing their drinks in relative silence for a while. Already, Tseng’s pale cheeks were flushed a bit with color from the alcohol; he was nowhere near drunk, but he’d always blushed easily.

“Tseng…” Veld began at last, talking into his mug. “If there were any other way—”

“I know, Veld,” Tseng assured him, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder. “You deserve this. You deserve to get away. You deserve to be happy.”

“You do too, okay?” Veld said firmly. “Remember that.”

Internally, some tiny part of Tseng was six years old again, watching his parents leave for the protest they’d be killed at. _“Don’t go,”_ he’d begged them, clinging to his mother’s skirt, his father’s leg. _“Don’t go…”_ and he’d watched them die on T.V. It was the first time his world crumbled.

Sometimes, when he dreamed, he could still remember his mother’s face, his father’s eyes, but they won’t come when he’s awake. Not when he’s reaching for pleasant memories, anyway, but he had no doubts that he would always be able to remember that awful day in vivid detail, no matter how hard he tried to forget it.

_His mother smelled like lavender._ He could still smell it, could still feel the soft fabric of her skirt against his tear-soaked cheek. _The air was crisp_. Early autumn, the way it was now. _The sun was getting low._

_“Don’t go,” he’d said, and she’d knelt down so they were eye-to-eye, forehead to forehead. She rested her hands on his shoulders, stared into his eyes._

_“I have to, little duck. You’ll understand one day.”_

But he never would, because she wasn’t there to explain. _The press of the crowds and the roar of a siren and a voice screaming in Wutian through a megaphone. Picket signs thrown aside when the armored truck drove through the crowd. Screams and sobs and red, red blood…_

_Blood red like Li’s had been that day three years later, wet and hot on his face. The shock slowly dawning to agonized terror, and he clutched Li tighter and begged "Don't go," but he had, just like everyone else.The young man had been holding him and now he was dead, and the Security Officers trained their guns on Tseng and he wanted to kill them more than anything, but he was only nine and his world had crumbled yet again so he just held his hands up and tried not to cry…_

_Don’t go,_ he wanted to say to Veld, but he wasn’t six anymore, so he fought back the urge.

“When I was six I watched my parents die on television,” Tseng said quietly instead, feeling Veld’s gaze snap to him at the words, because he didn’t talk about his past, not ever. “It was an anti-Shinra protest. It was supposed to be peaceful. I didn’t have any other family, but a friend of my parents took me in. Li lost his wife the same day my parents died. He was there when it happened. He’d always hated the company, but after that…he got radical. We moved to Midgar, and he ended up in charge of a hacker group trying to take down Shinra….He was holding me when they shot him. He was holding me, and I watched him die... No one held me again until you did. I don’t really know what it feels like to have a father, but…” Tseng trailed off, coughed, cleared his throat. “I’ve always looked up to you, you know.”

Suddenly, Veld remembered something he’d forgotten to write in his letter. Still seated in their corner booth, Veld moved closer and wrapped Tseng in a hug, throwing one arm loosely over the young man’s shoulders.

“I’m damned proud of you, Boss,” Veld said warmly through the tightness in his throat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news for everyone following this! I have ideas for at least a few more chapters. I decided that I wasn't really satisfied with the way it ended, so hopefully the next couple of chapters will tie up any and all loose ends neatly.


	15. You Can't Look Back

_Somewhere in the distance, someone was screaming. Blood, wet and hot. Pain like fire tearing through his chest. The strained, wet sound his lungs made as he tried to inhale. Hojo’s laugh, and blackness. A moment of blackness, interrupted by a woman screaming._

_Lucrecia… his lips tried to form the word, but blood came out instead._

_Hojo yelling. Lucrecia’s sobs. A gunshot. A door slammed. There were hands against his skin then, slender, familiar hands that felt impossibly hot. She was so warm. Or was he simply cold? Realizing she was trying to move him, he tried to help, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t move._

_A cold metal table beneath him. Mako burning in his veins. The hum of machinery. Lucrecia’s hoarse sobbing. Her voice came to him through a fog, sometimes clear, sometimes nothing more than a buzzing in the background._

_“I’m so sorry._

_“This is all my fault._

_“I lied to you._

_“I made a mistake._

_“This should have been yours.” Pressure on his finger as she slipped her wedding band onto it._

_"I love you, Vincent Valentine..."_

_The mako tank. Lucrecia’s desperate attempts to keep him alive replaced by Hojo’s twisted experimentations. The tugging sensation as the scapel sliced through skin. The sound of his ribcage cracking open. The scent of antiseptic melding with the stench of blood and rot in the air. Hojo tugging at the ring stuck on his swollen finger in frustration before fetching a bonesaw. His maniacal smile as he stood above Vincent with the instrument…_

“Vincent.” 

_The vibration of the saw as it cut through his forearm reverberating through his body, shaking his frame. The blood seeped out slowly, black as thick as molasses…_

“Vincent.” _A voice too deep to be Lucrecia’s, too concerned to be Hojo’s…_ “Vincent, wake up.” 

A strong hand pressed his gauntleted arm into the bed as Vincent jolted awake and tried to lash out. He was still caught somewhere in between his nightmare and reality, breaths coming in ragged gasps, eyes wide but unseeing.

“Hey,” Veld murmured, releasing his arm as his partner’s eyes began to focus. “You’re okay. It’s just a dream.”

Vincent’s panting breaths gradually slowed to normal, awareness creeping back into his scarlet eyes. Veld leaned against him once he was sure the contact was safe, trying to ignore the headache he could feel building behind his eyes. He’d only been asleep for a few hours, just long enough for the drunk he’d gotten with Tseng late the night before to begin fading towards a hangover. He was caught somewhere on the cusp between the two at the moment, head still a bit woozy from the booze but beginning to throb painfully along with his heartbeat.

“Nightmare?” Veld asked sympathetically. The question was rhethorical, and he didn’t wait for Vincent to reply. “Yeah,” he muttered instead. “Me too.”

Absently, Veld rubbed at the band of burn scar on his left wrist, sighing when Vincent caught the movement. He reached out for the pitcher of water on the bedside table and poured himself a glass, downing it before he spoke, achingly aware of his cottonmouth.

“It was the first time things really went south after I took on Tseng as a partner,” Veld explained without prompting after a brief silence. “Undercover work gone wrong. We ended up getting taken in by some syndicate goons. They were keeping us in this old factory building they were using to manufacture weapons. Guess they figured if we managed to find it, others would too. They packed up shop and left us there, but not before torching the place. Tseng and I were handcuffed to a piece of the equipment. Had to use it to burn through the handcuffs to get loose. Turns out heating metal up enough to melt it makes the bits the flame isn’t touching hot as a motherfucker too. Tseng’s got one to match.”

Vincent had settled back down into the pillows while Veld spoke, and Veld lit a cigarette and followed him, curling close to Vincent as they both tried to shake off the last tendrils of their nightmares.

“You want to talk about it?” Veld asked at last. Vincent shook his head, his right hand rubbing absently at the metal of his gauntlet. Expecting that, Veld ground out the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray on the side table and sat up. “Well, then. Looks like we’re both up early. What do you say we have a nice, big breakfast to celebrate our last day in Midgar, eh?”

With that, he kissed Vincent’s hair and slipped from the bedroom. When Vincent finished dressing a moment later and joined him in the kitchen, Veld was already busy pulling pans and skillets from the cabinets, a fresh pot of coffee slowly brewing on the counter. The breakfast the two of them whipped up was patently ridiculous, both of them doing their best to clear out as much of the cabinets as possible. Even after they’d both more than eaten their fill, there was plenty leftover, and Veld packed the rest of it up to take to the office. It was something he did on occasion—cook breakfast for everyone. Usually he only did it to celebrate, but surprising everyone wouldn’t be out of the ordinary enough to raise alarm. He made sure to set aside some extra cinnamon toast sticks for Tseng, letting out a long sigh as he finished packing everything up.

“This is really it,” Veld observed quietly, taking another glance around his apartment. The car from impound was already loaded down with the meager possessions they planned on carrying with them—clothes and food, mostly, though there was a not insignificant supply of weapons and materia as well. Grimoire’s photo albums were there also, of course, along with Veld’s box of letters and knick knacks, a few of Vincent’s favorite hardbacks. The load barely filled half the trunk. Other than a few missing photos, the apartment looked the same. As Veld flipped the lights off for the last time, he knew the queasy feeling in his stomach had nothing to do with his hangover.

“This is…harder than I expected it to be,” Veld admitted at last.

He wasn’t sure how many times in the past thirteen years that he had fantasized of dropping everything and riding off into the sunset with Vincent, but now that it was happening, he felt undeniably queasy at the dawning reality that he had _life_ here. Everything he had ever known was in this city. And there were people here he cared about, people here it hurt to leave behind. 

Vincent took Veld’s hand into his own, giving it a firm, reassuring squeeze.

“We’re in this together,” he reminded Veld after a moment. His knee-jerk reaction was to assure the other man it was all right to stay if he wanted, but Vincent held that particular sentiment in, knowing it would do nothing but earn him a cuff over the head. Veld dropped Vincent by the boarding school on his way to work, watching the enourmous building swallow him up before driving the remaining blocks to the employee parking area at Shinra.

“This is really it,” he murmured to himself as he cut the engine. Veld took a deep breath, gathered up his things, and steeled himself for his last day as a company employee.

Veld was running late again. It wasn’t an unusual thing, especially lately, though he had always possessed a loose interpretation of punctuality, even before he’d begun moonlighting with Vincent regularly. As Tseng threw back a few aspirin and chased them with coffee, however, he realized it was likely his own damn fault Veld was late today, rather than Vincent’s. After all, they’d ended up in Wall Market together the night before until night had technically become morning before catching the metro home.

Only a herculean effort of will had enabled Tseng to make it to the office on time himself, and when he did get in, he fetched a cup of coffee from the breakroom and promptly locked himself in Veld’s office, in the dark, and murmured a prayer in Wutian for death to take him. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been so hungover. Last year’s Midwinter party, maybe. It was unnecessary to say that he was not in the mood to be interrupted, and he was glad that the rest of the Turks were good enough at reading him that it was clear to them. He expected it would be lunchtime before anyone dared to bother him, so he bristled even more than he usually would at the sound of a certain unpleasant, oil-slick of a voice, gone nasally the way it did when its owner spoke too loudly. Tseng heard him from the other room as he entered the Turk’s department.

“Hojo,” he growled under his breath, rising reluctantly to his feet to intercept the man.

“Where is that boar you call a Director, boy?” Hojo snapped at Tseng as he emerged from Veld’s office. Tseng closed his eyes and forced himself to count slowly to ten before replying.

“I’m afraid to inform you that Director Dragoon is not in at the moment,” he said tonelessly after a moment. Hojo let out a loud scoff.

“What kind of department is this? Since when has it become acceptable for a director to leave his department unmanned?”

“And who, I wonder, is manning _your_ department as we speak, Director?” Tseng wondered aloud, his voice a sharp, deadly thing, not even trying to feign politeness. He had never liked Hojo, and his disgust for the man had only grown in recent weeks. This man had taken everything from him, he realized. He may not have been privy to all of the details, may not have known exactly what had happened in Nibelheim, but he knew enough to know that Hojo was behind it all. The knife tucked neatly into his shirtsleeve burned like molten lead, aching to be used, and he wondered briefly if there were any pretext under which he could stab a Director and walk away with his life. Luckily, a voice cut through the thoughts before they could go too far.

“You really shouldn’t subject people to that ugly fucking mug of yours so early in the morning, Director. You’re going to make somebody sick. Look, I get you might not be able to see so great through those goggles of yours, so I’ll help you out. You’re in the wrong damned department.”

Tseng let out a sigh of relief as Veld pushed by him, flipping on the lights to his office and setting a basket down on his desk. If _Veld_ could manage to hold his temper around Hojo, Tseng knew he had no excuse to fail at it. Glad to be out of the line of fire, Tseng slipped into the background as Hojo followed his partner into his office, not bothering to close the door.

“I’m not sure which part of my last statement was unclear, but since you seem not to be a man of subtlety, I’ll lay it out plainly for you; Get the fuck out of my department, Hojo,” Veld said flatly, unable to completely keep the hatred from his voice. 

“Oh, I won’t be long,” Hojo assured. “I simply wanted to extend an invitation to you, is all.”

Hojo waited for Veld to bite, to echo ‘An invitation?’ so he could continue on with his monologue, but Veld just met him with silence and a flinty, venomous stare. Robbed of his theatrics, Hojo snarled a bit and pressed on.

“I want to see the look on your face when you see your replacement,” Hojo continued at last, his irritation at Veld’s refusal to cooperate plain on his face. “The training grounds where I last caught you snooping. 3 p.m. I’ll be waiting. Bring your new boy toy if you’d like.” He snarled in Tseng’s direction. With that, the stooped scientist turned on heel and walked away, the glares of the two Turks boring into his retreating form.

“What the fuck was that all about?” Tseng wondered aloud as he closed the door to Veld’s office behind them. Veld sank down heavily into his office chair, covering his eyes with his hand and letting out a sigh.

“The kid,” he groaned in realization. “Bahamut on a _fucking_ bike, why today of all days?”


	16. Be Quick or Be Dead

“You don’t have to do this, Boss,” Tseng told Veld again. “There’s no reason to play into his hand.”

Veld was pacing the short length of his office, glancing occasionally at the clock. Almost two already. He had to make a decision soon. Did he meet Hojo and Sephiroth at the training grounds or not? Tseng was adamantly against it, and while he wasn’t sure of the wisdom of it himself, he couldn’t banish the feeling of dread in his stomach at the thought of ignoring the invitation.

“Hojo had the kid fighting a fucking _Behemoth_ , Tseng, and that wasn’t even when he was trying to impress somebody. What if he throws more at the kid and he can’t handle it? Who’ll be there to stop it? Hojo?” Veld shook his head. “I don’t think I have a choice.”

“Then I’m going with you,” Tseng said flatly.

“You absolutely are not,” Veld snapped back. He was doing it again, he realized immediately—that thing Vincent criticized him for—refusing help when it was offered, especially when it was really needed—but he didn’t care anymore. It could be his fatal flaw, he decided. He wasn’t going to put anyone he cared about in danger. “You’re going to stay here so you can contact Vincent if anything goes wrong.”

“Veld—” Tseng began, but Veld cut over him.

“I’m still your boss until the end of the day, kid, and that’s an order,” he said with finality. He saw Tseng breathe in to keep arguing and closed his eyes, growling in frustration. “Shiva’s tits, Tseng, don’t you get it? He thinks we’re _together_. He fucking _hates_ me, and I’ve seen how he likes to get his revenge. So you are going to _stay the fuck away from him_. Do you understand?”

Veld’s voice was a growl, the way it was when he was a hair’s breadth away from punching something, and when Tseng reached out to rest his hand on Veld’s arm, he could feel the older man trembling. Veld drew in a deep, shaky breath and collapsed back into his desk chair, fisting his hands into his hair.

“Fuck,” he exhaled. “I’m sorry, okay?”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Tseng assured. “I get it. I didn’t realize… How does he know?” Veld sighed, took a cigar from the box in the top drawer of his desk, clipped the end, lit it.

“No fucking clue,” Veld replied at last after a few puffs. “Vince, I guess. I don’t think he was exactly…lucid, for a while. Who knows what he might have said.” Veld closed his eyes, tried to quiet his mind. He didn’t want to think about that. It was a bad idea, lingering on Hojo had done to his partner when he’d be face-to-face with the fucker soon.

“…Please don’t do anything stupid,” Tseng murmured at length.

“Yeah,” Veld agreed. He finished his cigar and lit a cigarette, offered Tseng the pack when he gestured for one. After a few long moments, he ground his butt out in the ashtray and let out a sigh.

“You have to go,” Tseng observed.

“Yeah,” Veld choked. “Look… I’ve never been great at goodbyes…”

“Then don’t,” Tseng suggested gently. “This isn’t goodbye, anyway. I’ll see you as soon as it’s safe.”

Veld just nodded at that, looking like he wanted to say something else. He reached into his pocket instead, settling for passing Tseng the letter he’d written him the day before and stepping forward to wrap the smaller man in a hug.

“Take care of yourself,” Veld said softly.

“Same to you.”

“Soon, then,” Veld said awkwardly, stepping away from the embrace. Tseng smiled at him, a small, sad, gentle thing.

“Soon,” he promised, and with that, Veld nodded and left his office for the last time. Heart hammering in his throat, he made his way unhurriedly towards the training grounds. Tseng watched him go before sinking into Veld’s office chair ( _My office chair now,_ he thought numbly) and stared at the letter Veld had given him. He reached into the cigar box in Veld’s desk drawer, snipped the end off the way he’d watched Veld do a thousand times, and drew out his lighter. It took him a few tries to get it burning evenly, but he finally managed, settling back into the chair and taking a few small puffs before opening the letter and beginning to read.

_My Dearest Tseng…_

_Whatever the Planet made people like us for, it sure as shit isn’t expressing our feelings, but I have to try. I owe you that. I owe you so much more than that, but I know you won’t resent me for that debt, because it’s never been a burden to you to care for me. Families take care of each other, and family is something you choose, not something you’re born into. Someone a lot smarter than I am told me that once. And you’re my family, Tseng. There are only two people in this world I have ever loved unconditionally, and you’re one of them._

_After I lost Vincent, I don’t think I gave a smile that wasn’t forced until you walked into my life. I didn’t think I would ever be able to trust someone, really trust someone, ever again. I can trust the other Turks to have my back, but you’re the only one of them who really knows me, who really sees me. I can’t thank you enough for that. You’ve been my bedrock these past seven years, and I know from that look in your eyes when I said I was leaving that I’ve been yours. It’s okay, you know, to be angry with me. You’re going to be angry with me. I would say I forgive you, but there is nothing to forgive. You have every right to feel what you feel. It’s going to fucking hurt, and I can’t say sorry enough, because the last thing I ever want to do is hurt you. _

_I hope you know that you’re brilliant, and talented, and brave, and that you’re going to make a much better Director than I ever did. Sometime in the future, I hope there’s a day we can get drinks together again. I hope things can be normal. In the meantime, I’ll write as much as I can, and I’ll make sure you always know where to find me. If you need anything, anything, let me know. Even if it might put us in danger. We all expect to be on the move, and I’d happily find a new place to stay if it meant ensuring your safety. Vincent will understand. He’s one of us, after all. Taking care of you will never be a burden on us either, Tseng. _

_With Love,_

_Veld_

“It would seem punctuality is not one of your strong suits,” Hojo sneered derisively as Veld entered the arena, fifteen or so minutes late. Veld ignored the scientist, flicked his cigarette butt vaguely in Hojo’s direction, and stretched lazily.

“Oh, did you hold the show just for me?” Veld asked sarcastically. “How sweet of you.”

“I’m afraid you misunderstand, Director Dragoon,” Hojo said with delight. As soon as he registered the tone, Veld’s hand snapped down towards his gun, practiced fingers unbuckling the holster in one smooth motion. “You _are_ the show.”

Something hit Veld from behind. Hard. He hit the dirt face-first, air escaping in a painful huff, his gun clattering out of his hand. He didn’t waste time fumbling for it, just drew his other pistol instead, rolled onto his back, and put three bullets into whatever had tackled him. He realized vaguely that it had probably been a dog once, but he wasn’t sure what the fuck else it was now, other than dead, which was the only thing that really mattered to him in the moment. He whirled on Hojo, but the man was already gone, disappearing through the doors at the far side of the arena. Veld sprinted after him, breathless, ignoring the blackness intruding at the edges of his vision at the lack of air, but the metal doors slammed in his face before he could cross the threshold. He cursed internally and collapsed against them for a moment, wheezing as he tried to catch his breath.

“Fuck,” he said aloud when he did. Automatically, he reloaded his pistol and took note of where his other gun had landed. If there was one thing he was sure of at this point, it was that Hojo wasn’t done here. On high alert, he took stock of his surroundings.

He was on the bottom floor of the training arena, in the area he and Hojo had looked out over the other day—a circular arena roughly a hundred yards or so across with barren metal walls and a dirt floor. Arenas like this were built to hold monsters; there was no way out other than back through that door, which meant he had no choice but to play whatever game Hojo was getting at here.

He turned towards the sound of a grate creeping open on side of the arena, and his dread twisted his stomach again as Sephiroth emerged into the space, a katana as tall as he was in a scabbard at his side. The boy joined him in the middle of the arena, pausing a few paces away to regard him. Something about the kid was…different, something in his eyes. Were they greener than he remembered? Certainly they hadn’t been so luminous last time, glowing even in the midafternoon sunlight.

“Sephiroth,” Veld greeted cautiously, and the youth cocked his head in a strangely avian manner, regarding him curiously. It took the kid a moment to place him, but Veld could see the moment when he did.

“You’re from the school,” Sephiroth observed. “Why are you here?”

“Yeah,” Veld began, “About that…” He trailed off as the gate Sephiroth had come through opened again.

“That’s a fucking dragon,” Veld observed with despair. Beside him, Sephiroth drew his sword.


	17. Wrathchild

Sephiroth didn’t flinch at the crack of Veld’s gunfire near his ear, the same way he didn’t flinch when the dragon roared and let out a stream of fire in response. He simply dodged aside effortlessly, diving into a roll and coming up a few yards away with barely a speck of dust on him. Veld, by contrast, threw himself to the ground as far away as he could manage to leap, and he was a bit winded again as he climbed back to his feet and broke into a run, keeping on the move as he tried to put as many bullets as he could into anything that looked like a weak spot.

Sephiroth, meanwhile, worked up-close and personal, moving with an improbable speed and grace as he painted silver streaks through the mid afternoon air with his katana like an artist with canvas. Occasionally, arcs of crimson were added to his palate as he drew blood from the beast and the spatter followed the line of his blade. He’d fought monsters like this before; that much was clear. He was a lot better at this than Veld was, and the Turk found himself hoping against hope that this was all Hojo wanted to prove today. Surely that crazy asshole didn’t actually mean for him to die here, did he? Did he think he could just feed another Director to a fucking dragon with no consequences? He _couldn’t_ do that, could he?

Veld’s thoughts scattered when a swipe of the dragon’s tail took Sephiroth from his feet, slinging the boy across the arena like a ragdoll. He hit the wall hard and slumped there, not moving as the dragon circled around to attack him. Veld sprinted towards the boy, worried the blow had knocked the boy unconscious. He got there a moment before the dragon did, had just enough time to kneel down in front of the kid before Sephiroth raised his head.

The boy’s pupils were slit like a snake’s, the mako glow of them brighter than ever. There was something shiny about them, a shimmering quality that Veld had noticed earlier but hadn’t placed until that moment. Hojo had hopped the kid up on mako—not through any fancy medical science either—shot him up with a needle with way the addicts did it. He’d seen mako addiction more than a few times, working in his field. The drug often seemed like a boon to bruisers and hitmen. It increased strength and stamina, heightened the reflexes. But it also made people unpredictable. Dangerous. Mako addicts didn’t last long in his line of work; they had a bad habit of snapping and getting themselves and others killed.

Sephiroth looked through Veld, eyes solely for his quarry, and leapt to his feet with a catlike grace, acting as if he hadn’t just made impact with a metal wall with enough impact to shatter bone. He rushed the dragon, dodging the first blast of fire it sent his way. He slid beneath the second jet of flame, and for a terrifying second, Veld lost sight of him in the inferno. A moment later, the flames stopped abruptly, and Sephiroth emerged from beneath the dragon, drenched in blood. The creature leaked crimson in fat, heavy droplets from a deep slice through the emerald-green scales of its neck. It drew back at the pain, writhing with it for a moment before it tried to breathe flames again but only managed to release a hissing cloud of steam. It snapped at Sephiroth as the boy darted in for the kill, but he sidestepped nimbly, pirouetted back towards the dragon, dashed in a few steps, and sank his blade deep into the creature’s ruby underbelly. He rolled out from beneath the creature as it fell, stopping just outside of range of the monster’s screeching death throes to watch it bleed out.

Veld realized he’d been holding his breath, and he inhaled deeply, letting it out in a shuddering sigh. He gave a little, shaky laugh of relief as the monster stopped writhing and fell still in its pooling blood, slipping his guns back into their holsters and wiping his hands off on his dusty trousers. He moved towards Sephiroth, both to check him for injuries and congratulate him, but froze when he met the kid’s eyes.

His eyes were still reptilian, in more than just the shape of his pupils. They were cold, empty in a way they shouldn’t have been, thoughtless hostility radiating behind their mako-hazed sheen. The predatory expression he’d worn while fighting hadn’t fallen from his face. He took a step towards Veld, his movements measured and balanced, like a predator stalking his prey, and the Turk fell back a few steps, yielding his ground cautiously. The kid was drugged, and that was bad enough, but this was more than that. He recognized that look in the kid’s eyes. He’d seen it on Vincent before, the time Veld had seen him snap, the time he’d witnessed the Berserker come out to play.

“Hey kid,” he said gently, cautiously. “Fight’s over.”

He recognized what was happening, but he didn’t know how to stop it. He knew how to talk Vincent back from the ledge when he was like this, but he didn’t know the kid, the same way he hadn’t known Vincent the first time he’d seen the madness take him.

“You don’t have to do this,” Veld tried anyway. “He’s using you. Look, you’re supposed to leave Midgar today, right? With Vincent? You don’t have to do this—” He cut off as Sephiroth kicked sand in his direction. Knowing better than to stay where he was, he moved back and to the side as he wiped the grit from his eyes, narrowly dodging Sephiroth’s rush.

“Hojo!” Veld roared as he tried to keep out of the kid’s reach. “What the fuck game are you playing here?! What did you do to him?!”

A loudspeaker crackled, and Hojo chuckled over the intercom before he spoke.

“What did I do? Why, I hardly did anything,” Hojo laughed again. “That’s the beauty in it all, really. For all of my work, all my research, my breakthroughs, this entire experiment might have been a wash if the boy weren’t so naturally violent. That boarding school might have made him too normal, too stable to be Shinra’s new pet killing machine otherwise. But it’s been so dreadfully easy to overwrite the boy’s moral compass in favor of bloodshed. Now where did he get that from, I wonder?”

“The fuck are you trying to gain here!” Gods, was this really all just for revenge? And revenge for what? Loving Vincent? What the fuck else had he ever done to hurt this man?

“Don’t you see, Director? This tragic training accident will prove that Sephiroth is too unstable to be housed with general public. He’ll be firmly back in my care, right where he belongs. Forever. Killing you is just an added bonus, really. Anyone would have done, but well…I wanted to make it special. Thank Vincent for me, by the way, when you get to Hell.”


	18. Marionettes (I. The Discovery of Strings)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...

_They weren’t on a mission the first time Veld saw Vincent come unhinged. They were walking home from the bar after work, just a bit past tipsy, enjoying the cool autumn breeze and warm afternoon sunlight beaming down from above. Veld was needling Vincent about his upcoming birthday, which someone had found out and scrawled on the calendar in the Turk’s lounge. Birthdays among the Turks were usually extravagant affairs, and though Vincent was still a rookie, he’d been accepted into the fold. He’d start his official assignment as Veld’s partner at the end of the week, close enough to his birthday to celebrate both at once. Everyone expected a party. A big one._

_“Come on, Valentine,” Veld tried again, voice edging distinctly towards a whine. He recognized it, but was drunk enough not to care._

_“I don’t want a party,” Vincent repeated, absently steadying Veld as he swayed a little on his feet._

_“Well, it’s not_ for _you,” Veld half-joked, bumping his shoulder into Vincent’s. “It’s an excuse for everyone to get together and get shitfaced without feeling guilty about it.”_

_“Then you can all do it without me,” Vincent countered._

_“Then we don’t have an excuse anymore.” Veld rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket for a cigarette._

_“Make a cardboard cutout or something. Pretend it’s me.”_

_“It’d have about as much personality,” Veld ribbed, and Vincent shoved him playfully. The Turk laughed a bit as he stumbled towards the road and a car honked in warning. They’d only been working together for about a month, but they’d both settled into the partnership naturally, and a working relationship was quickly blooming into a personal one. They’d made fast friends, an unusual thing for both of the men, but they didn’t question their luck on the matter. They were both smiling when they rounded the corner to take their usual shortcut to the metro through an alley, but the expression dropped from Veld’s face when he caught sight of the group occupying it._

_Bumping into drug runners and groups of petty thieves on their way home was a common enough occurrence, one that didn’t usually yield much drama—people recognized the suits, and a person had to be a special mix of stupid and suicidal to knowingly attack a Turk—so Vincent noticed the shift in his partner’s attitude immediately, and his hand dropped to the revolver at his belt casually. He didn’t recognize the group, but Veld knew them, read them as trouble. It was all he needed to know._

_“Well, well, well,” what looked to be the oldest member of the group—a tall, lanky man with spiked blond hair about Veld’s age—said with a dangerous smile. “Look who we have here. Last I checked, you weren’t welcome in our territory, faggot.”_

_Veld felt Vincent stiffen beside him, was vaguely aware of the other man unclasping the holster for his gun. He had backup here, at least, though he hoped Vincent held his cool unless Mitchell forced their hand. He’d heard stories about Valentine having a temper, though he’d yet to witness it in the month they’d worked together. He’d also never seen Vincent so quick to draw arms on civvies, though, had never seen him react to an insult._ He probably should have registered what that likely meant at the time, but he hadn’t.

_“Guess you missed the memo,” Veld said coolly. “I’m Shinra now. Whole goddamned world’s my territory. So why don’t you get the fuck out of my alley, Mitchell? Take your gang with you, and I’ll pretend I didn’t see you here.”_

_“What, you gonna bust us?” Mitchell said with a laugh. “You want us to go? Make us.”_

_“Just get out of my way, Mitch,” Veld said lowly. “This doesn’t have to be a fight.”_

_“Fuck that,” Mitchell scoffed. “I told you what was coming to you next time I saw you, and that fancy suit ain’t changed shit. Think you can just pull the shit you did with no consequences?”_

_Mitchell pushed himself off the wall he’d been leaning against, moved a few steps closer, only stopping when he was crowded into Veld’s space, less than an arms-length away. He scrunched his face up in a snarl, conjured up a wad of phlegm, and spat it in Veld’s face. Veld swung without thinking, but the blond man had been expecting the blow, and he stepped aside, catching Veld’s arm and twisting it behind his back, bending back his elbow until he squirmed in pain._

_Veld was vaguely aware of movement in his peripheral, but Vincent stepped in faster than either of the combatants could really register, his fist making abrupt, solid contact with Mitchell’s jaw. Mitchell released Veld as he stumbled, shoving the Turk towards his cronies as he tried to right himself to face Vincent. For a brief moment, Vincent fingered the grip of his revolver. He could draw his gun and be done with this in six shots. They could call in the bodies, wait for the Security Officers to show, and catch the next train home. No one would ask questions. But his blood was racing, and he could feel the siren-call of his bloodlust, the berserker, urging him on._

_Vincent let Mitchell in closer, waited until he could feel the man’s breath on his face, then he grabbed him by the side of his hair and slammed his head into the brick wall beside them. Blood bloomed bright against his blond hair, and one of his companions turned at his cry, drawing a gun on Vincent as she saw what was happening. Vincent shoved a dazed Mitchell hard in her direction, and she caught the man instinctively, stumbling a bit under his weight. Vincent followed closely behind, wresting the gun from her hand before she had time to react and pistol-whipping her with the butt until her face was bloody and she fell back against the wall., motionless and groaning. When he turned towards the rest of the drug dealers, her blood dotted his face like a macabre line of freckles._

_Veld was on the ground, two of the other syndicate goons kicking him in the ribs while another stood over him with an electrorod, zapping the man every time he tried to rise to his feet. Vincent went for the man with the electrorod first, grabbing the weapon by its shaft and twisting until it came away from its owner. Even through the thick leather of his gloves, the current shocked him hard enough to make the muscles in his hand spasm, but he didn’t let go, didn’t register the pain. Still holding the rod in both hands, he looped it around the man’s neck and jerked until he heard the satisfying noise of his spine snapping. He tossed the weapon aside as the body dropped to the ground. He grabbed one of the other men off Veld by the back of his collar, yanking him to his feet and throwing him back against the brick wall with improbable force. The other goon who had been busy kicking Veld turned his attention towards Vincent instead. The only other syndicate man—a musclebound youth missing an eye—ground his cigarette out beneath his foot and cracked his knuckles. He finished the beer he’d been drinking in one long draw and broke the bottle against the wall before joining the skirmish._

_Veld had been half-conscious at that point, and he could only look on in awe as Vincent cleaved through the remaining thugs like a hot knife through butter, face and hands bloodied, eyes wild. Veld managed to gain his feet around the same time Vincent moved to pull Mitchell to his, pressing the man back against the wall to keep him upright as hit him, again and again. Vincent whirled on Veld when the older Turk rested a cautious hand on his back, trying to pull him away from Mitchell, like a mutt attacking its own owner for trying to break up a dogfight, and the sudden movement made Veld stumble back a few steps, still woozy on his feet._

_There was no recognition, no humanity, in Vincent’s eyes, and Veld was suddenly reminded of all the warnings he’d been given about his new partner and summarily ignored._

_"_ Kid’s a total headcase from what I’ve heard. Gets crazy and blacks out or something. Goes berserk…Kid ain’t human. You can see it in his eyes."

_So when Vincent turned his back to him and started back on Mitchell, Veld cautiously inched towards the discarded electrorod lying on the ground, griping the weapon tight in his fist, hoping the man would forgive him later for what he was about to do…_

_Even the Director had warned him before letting him take Vincent on as a partner. “_ I’m sure you’ve no doubt heard rumors…” _And he’d made Veld watch the tapes of Vincent, at twelve years old, ripping a pair of Security Officers apart, watched him turn on his own fucking father when Grimoire stepped in to stop him. He’d had that same look in his eyes then._ It was the same look as the one in Sephiroth’s eyes now. Why, of all things, did he have to inherit _this_ from his father?

Stars swam at the edges of Veld’s vision as he struggled to his feet, body aching where he’d struck the arena wall. It wasn’t the first time the kid had thrown him in their fight, but he was achingly aware that it would be one of the last. He felt like a mouse being toyed with by a cat, caught in teeth and claws, shaken and tossed aside, growing a bit more bruised and bedraggled every time he skittered back to his feet.

His guns were still in their holsters at his sides, and while he didn’t think typical rules of engagement about bringing a gun to a fistfight applied here, he was half-sure he’d rather die than turn them on the kid. He expected that his resolve on that issue would be tested without much delay. The kid had taken down a dragon basically single-handedly. He didn’t stand a chance in a fair fight, and any doubt about that had been cleared up in the first few moments of combat.

He was doing his best to stay away, not to engage, though the kid was fast enough to leave him no choice quite a few times.

“Kid,” he tried again. “Sephiroth. You don’t have to do this. You aren’t _his_ anymore. We can both walk away from here, all right? Catch that train to Kalm. Vincent’s going to be waiting for us. Fuck, kid. He’s lost enough already.” A lunge to the side narrowly carried him out of range of Sephiroth’s next blow. “I want to hear you play piano again. You’re damned good, you know. Maybe even better than Vincent, but don’t tell him I said that.” Sephiroth’s boot caught him in the stomach, and long years of practice kept his guard up as he doubled over, and he managed to block the punch the kid threw at his face. “Okay, tell him if you want. He probably knows anyway. But it has to come from you. Give him an excuse to practice. You’d both like that, wouldn’t you?”

Sephiroth wavered, just a step. It shouldn’t have been enough to give Veld hope, but it was all he had to cling to, so he pressed on.

“It’s especially cruel when people like you two end up in Shinra’s clutches. I wonder all the time what the fuck Vincent might have been if he’d managed to avoid it. You’re both brilliant you know, and talented—talented at things other than killing—you could do a lot of good for the world, given the choice.” He tried to catch the kid’s eyes, tried to hold his gaze as he spoke the next words. “You have a choice here.”

And Veld stepped closer to him this time instead of backing away, hands creeping up in a cautious gesture of surrender.

“Why fight when there’s nothing to gain?” Veld asked quietly. “The only prize to win here is a lifetime in Hojo’s clutches. Neither of us wants that for you.”

Sephiroth froze.

“They just want you as a weapon. They look at you, and they don’t see a person, they see a thing, a product they can control and use to further their own ends. You’re more than that. I hardly even know you, and I know you’re more than that.” Veld stepped within Sephiroth’s reach, stopped there. The kid didn’t react, didn’t move to attack him. “We’re gonna walk out of here together, okay?”

“….You’re Veld,” Sephiroth realized haltingly after a moment, tongue heavy with the weight of whatever drugs Hojo had given him.

“Yeah,” Veld murmured with a nod, the tension visibly fleeing him. A little of the fog lifted from Sephiroth’s eyes, and for a moment, Veld believed that things might go their way. Then the gun went off, and the kid’s eyes shot wide. Instinctively, Veld shot forward to catch him as he stumbled, letting out a strangled swear when he felt the warmth of the kid’s blood on his hands.

He looked up to see Hojo standing across the arena from them, smoking gun in hand, an ugly grin twisting his face. Sephiroth, eyes luminous and deadly in the dwindling afternoon light, slammed the heel of his fist into Veld’s sternum, sending the Turk reeling back, breathless, and Veld drew his gun, aiming it not towards Sephiroth, but Hojo, because if he was going to die here, he was dragging Hojo back into the Lifestream right behind him.

Before any of them could move, their attention was drawn to the screeching cacophony of claws ripping through steel at the side of the arena, and for a moment, Hojo’s gun wavered between Veld and the monster working to force itself through the arena wall.

Veld didn’t hesitate, didn’t waver. There was no choice to be made for him—he’d made it the moment he drew his gun from its holster and aimed it in Hojo’s direction.

He took his shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that I just keep upping the chapter count and leaving y'all on cliffhangers here. I really hope you'll forgive me.


	19. Marionettes (II. The Ascent)

When the final school bell rang for the day, Vincent left his classroom and made his way towards the music room. He was sure that Sephiroth would be anxious, and he wanted to do everything he could to calm the boy’s nerves before he had to go to training and pretend as if nothing were amiss in front of Hojo. He’d written out another piece for them to play together as well, a favorite of his mother’s he still had memorized from childhood. He wasn’t sure when he might next have the opportunity to play, and he wanted to spend a few more happy moments together that afternoon, lost in their music.

Dread dawned upon him slowly as he approached the music room and was met with silence. When he reached the door, the lights were off and the room was empty. Vincent turned on heel and made his way to the front office, walking as quickly as his long strides could carry him. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones. He kept his panic from his face as he pushed open the door to the office, doing his best to force a smile for the secretary situated behind the front counter.

“Good afternoon,” Vincent said warmly, leaning against the counter casually as he spoke. “I’m Mr. Kessler, the new Wutian professor. I gave a student detention yesterday for an infraction in the hallway, and should have reported to my room after the final bell today, but he never showed. I was wondering if I might bother you to check and see if he was in classes today.”

“Of course,” she said with a smile—a genuine, flirtatious one. “What’s the student’s name?”

“Sephiroth,” Vincent replied, watching the color drain from her face immediately, smile slowly wilting on her lips.

“I’m sorry, sir, but information on that student is strictly classified,” she said in a small, nervous voice. Without hesitation, Vincent unholstered his gun and placed it on the counter, keeping his finger off the trigger and pointing it towards the wall instead of the woman, but she registered the threat for what it was. Somehow, she managed to go even paler.

“Look,” Vincent began, dropping all pretense, eyes luminous behind the thick frames of his glasses, “I understand that you are afraid of the Shinra, but right now you should be afraid of _me_. I would rather this not go violent, but I will not leave this office without the information I need, and I cannot claim to be a peaceful man. Do you understand?” He waited for her to nod before he continued. “Where is the child?”

“He…Director Hojo took him early this afternoon,” she stammered. She looked like she was going to say more, but Vincent had already turned away before she finished talking, slipping his gun back into its holster beneath his oversized sweater. Behind his glasses, his eyes glinted gold. He knew where he needed to go.

With each step towards the training grounds, Vincent could feel his hopes of leaving this city without bloodshed draining away, heart hammering in premonition at the violence to come. He could feel his demons stirring as he approached the metro, but he bit back his panic as he boarded the train. His destination was only one stop away. His demons could hold back that long. _He_ could hold back that long. He had to.

Once he reached the Shinra building, Vincent made his way to the grate at the side of the training grounds Sephiroth had led him to the first time the boy had invited him to watch him practice, unscrewing it with his claws and doing his best to replace it behind him. He made his way through the darkened storage room to the ventilation slats looking out into the arena, where he looked out to see Sephiroth standing in the center, silver hair luminous in the sun. Even from here, Vincent could see the reptilian slits of his pupils, the hazy glow of a mako high clouding his eyes. He stood in the middle of the blood-stained arena, soaked in the blood of a dragon, facing off against…

_Veld_ , he realized with despair.

He watched his partner struggle back to his feet, obviously spent. He was losing, losing badly, but he still hadn’t drawn his guns, and Vincent knew he never would, not against a child, not against _his_ child. Vincent realized with horror that if he didn’t act, he was about to be forced to watch his son kill the man he loved. Acting, he realized with an equal amount of dread, was a thing that would require him to surrender himself to his demons in the middle of the Shinra Building, in the middle of Midgar. He closed his eyes for a moment, steeling himself to live with the consequences of that, whatever they may be. The city be damned. He had no choice.

He closed his eyes and sank into himself, reaching for the Beast. Galian was never far, not these days, especially not when his host’s blood was racing, but the moment before he surrendered control of himself to his demons, Vincent noticed something coming from the arena—silence.

He looked back out to see Veld standing an arm’s length away from Sephiroth, hands raised in surrender, and the boy didn’t move forward to attack him.

“We’re gonna walk out of here together, okay?” Vincent heard Veld say.

“…You’re Veld,” he heard Sephiroth realize. Vincent watched the tension melt away from Veld’s posture at the words, his face breaking out in a small smile. His hands fell back to his sides, though the right one twitched a little, as if he thought to reach out to the boy for a moment before thinking better of it.

“Yeah,” he rumbled warmly with relief. Veld and Sephiroth were both too distracted to hear the sound of the metal doors creaking open behind them, too distracted to notice Hojo enter the arena, gun drawn, and he could only watch in horror as the scientist took aim and fired.

The shift was instantaneous. By the time Vincent had taken a step forward and brought his claws to the grate he peered through, it was Galian’s strength behind the motion, and the Beast’s clawed hand joined his own, their sensitive ears ringing as they shredded steel like paper with a deafening screech.

Distantly, Vincent was aware of the familiar cadence of Veld’s gunfire as he crashed into the arena. Three shots, and he saw Hojo stumble, catching himself against the arena wall as his left hand tried to cover the holes in his torso in shock and he rose a trembling pistol in his right, pointing it in Veld’s direction. Galian hit the man just as the gun went off, hard enough to knock the shot wide of a killing blow, but not soon enough for it to miss entirely, the bullet catching Veld in the shoulder and spinning him in half a circle. With a roar, Vincent swiped the pistol from Hojo’s grip, taking at least half the hand with it.

He almost lost himself at Hojo’s scream, at the intoxicating aroma of his blood lingering over the underlying scent of death permeating the air. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to rend Hojo limb from limb, to taste the man’s blood on his tongue, feel it warm in his throat as he tore the scientist apart. It was through a hercuelean effort of will that he managed to turn Galian’s attention back towards the battlefield, where Sephiroth had collapsed to his knees after pushing Veld away.

Vincent could see the wound from here, glimmering red and wet on the boy’s shoulder, flecks of white bone showing through the blood where the shot had shattered part of his shoulder blade. For a brief moment, Sephiroth was still, and then a violent tremble began to wrack his body. The boy screamed as the transformation took him, and Vincent felt a sympathetic twinge of pain as he watched the boy writhe in the throes of an agony he knew well. When his body settled again a moment later, a wing jutted from his right shoulder, just below the gunshot wound, black feathers trailing shadows in the dimming afternoon sunlight.

The gunshot was all it took to send the boy careening back over the edge, triggering his fight-or-flight response. But they were locked in an arena, and he had nowhere to run, so fight was all that was left to him. Fighting the pain seemed just as useless as running from it, and the boy turned his fight in the only direction he could channel it—towards Veld. He rose to his feet with a speed and grace that shouldn’t have been possible, body tensed to kill.

Galian hit the boy before he could spring, and he and Sephiroth rolled to the ground in a heap, a tumbling blur of fur and feather, before they separated and regained their feet. Vincent looked over towards Veld, who stood frozen on the spot, wide eyes trained on the combatants, hand pressed tightly to the wound on his shoulder. Briefly, Veld’s eyes travelled down to the golden gauntlet on his left arm, and his mouth fell open a little as realization dawned on him.

“Vincent?” he questioned breathlessly.

_Run_ , Vincent begged silently, hoping that somehow the man could read the plea in his eyes, because when he tried to speak the word all that came out was a roar. Sephiroth charged him, and he reacted without thinking, form dissipating into smoke as he turned immaterial for a moment, side-stepping the rush. He’d never done that as Galian before, hadn’t even been sure he could, and he realized that his union with this beast went even deeper than he realized. He would lament that later, perhaps, but there was no time to dwell on it now.

The boy moved with the same quickness he remembered from watching him train, but it was even more impressive on the receiving end. If he were human, he’d be dead. He wasn’t sure how Veld had lasted so long, unless the boy had just been toying with him, the way a cat might toy with a mouse. Sephiroth was a blur of black and silver as he moved, a flash of pale skin and dark feather. He was favoring his right side, the one Hojo had shot, arm clutched close to his body, but he protected the injured side with his wing, weaponizing its length to keep Vincent at a distance. Grappling him would be nearly impossible, and there was little he could do as Galian that would stop the boy without doing serious damage, he realized as Sephiroth knocked him away with his wing again.

He closed his eyes as he hit the ground and tried to calm Galian, tried to urge the creature back to sleep, but the monster was still pressing him towards violence, urging him onwards. Even with his eyes closed, his senses were keen enough that he managed to roll aside as Sephiroth attacked again, the boy’s elbow nearly slamming down into his face. He kept his eyes closed, tried his best to keep his focus inward, tried to calm his racing blood. He didn’t react in time to dodge Sephiroth’s next blow, and the boy threw him across the arena as if he weighed nothing. He slammed _hard_ into one of the pillars supporting the observation deck, and the pain was enough to trigger a shift, to push Vincent just a little closer towards the ledge, a little closer towards losing control. Red flashed behind his eyes.

He kept his eyes closed as Galian railed against him, the Beast’s voice growling in harmony to his own inner demon. He focused on his breaths. Tried to center himself. Sephiroth hit him again, hard enough his head spun. A growl tore from his chest, and he batted the boy aside, sending him flying with all of Galian’s strength and a roar of fury.

“Vincent!” Veld’s voice kept him back from the edge, just barely, and he shook the darkness from the edges of his vision and rose back to his feet, Galian falling into a defensive stance as they prepared to be attacked again. Sephiroth was still lying still across the arena, seeming a bit dazed. Veld was running in his direction, running as well as he could at least, though he favored his right leg and left shoulder enough to make the motions difficult. Vincent tried to warn the older man away, but only managed another roar, one that brought Veld to an abrupt halt just a few steps away. “Vincent?” the man repeated with concern.

 _Run_ , Vincent plead again silently as his partner stepped in between him and Sephiroth, the only thing standing between the boy and his quarry. The child would find his feet again soon, and when that happened… Veld moved forward again, and Vincent found himself cringing back, terrified of the rage he could feel building inside, of Galian’s bloodlust, of his own, but Veld didn’t hesitate this time.

“Are you still with me?” Veld asked gently as he came to a stop in front of Galian, one trembling hand reaching out to trail through the hot, thick fur coating his forearm. He looked up into the Beast’s eyes, trying to find some trace of Vincent there. At first glance, there was nothing familiar in that gaze—yellow, animalistic, so different from the warm mahogany stare he was accustomed to, different even than the dangerous scarlet glow that had taken its place—but as he looked deeper he could see a flicker of Vincent lurking in its depths. No. not a flicker of Vincent, a flicker of the Berserker.

“Vincent,” he said cautiously, dimly registering movement in his peripheral as Sephiroth rose back to his feet with dread, because the last thing they needed right now was two feral monsters on a battlefield, and Vincent was too close to losing control. “Focus,” he pleaded. Vincent closed his eyes. 

_“Tell me what it’s like,” Veld murmured to Vincent over his cigarette, trailing smoke out into the starlit night as they reclined on Vincent’s balcony together over drinks. They were both somber tonight, quiet. It was a few days after the incident with Mitchell, and things hadn’t been quite the same between them since. Vincent knew what Veld was asking._

_“When I blackout?” he clarified anyway, taking a deep draw of his wine. Veld gave a little nod, grinding out his cigarette butt and lighting another. He offered Vincent one, waiting for the other man to take one and light it before he responded._

_“Yeah. Tell me about_ before _. Can you feel it happening? Or is it sudden?”_

_“…I can feel it,” Vincent said lowly, haltingly. He lowered his head a little, let his hair fall into his eyes, hiding his face behind it like a shield. “It’s…like the calm before the storm—quiet, but I can feel the electricity in the air.”_

_“Does it stay like that, when it hits? Like a storm?”_

_“Like a hurricane,” Vincent whispered._

_Veld puffed at his cigarette in silence for a moment, considering._

_“Hurricanes have eyes, you know,” he observed after a moment. “There’s calm in them, if you can find it.” Vincent shook his head, though, and the cherry of his cigarette flared bright in the night as he inhaled._

“ _Not in this hurricane.”_

_“Then it’s not a hurricane. It’s just a regular old storm, and we know how to get through those, right?” Veld smiled at him, the first time he’d done so that night, and when Vincent met his eyes, they were warm. Vincent gave the older Turk a questioning look. “Storms without centers are chaos. If you linger there too long, you’re going to end up lost. I’ve been caught in some bad ones before, on missions. Snow storms are the worst. Like the whole damn universe just turns to white noise and bee stings, and if you just glance around, you can’t see shit. There’s a way to get through, though. All you have to do is find a point in the distance and push forward towards it instead of losing yourself in the chaos. Maybe…try finding a focal point?”_

_Vincent just stared at Veld for a moment, dumbfounded. No one had ever just…talked through this with him before. His father and his teachers had pretended the problem didn’t exist. Shinra had tried to torture the darkness out of him. But Veld had witnessed it, and then he’d just…treated it like any other problem to be solved. After the incident in the alley, Vincent had expected Veld to go to the Director and request a different partner, but he hadn’t. He’d treated the next workday like any other Wednesday, and they’d gotten drinks after work in their usual spot like nothing had changed._

_So Vincent had just assumed Veld would do what every other person in his life that had cared for him had done—pretend the darkness in him didn’t exist. But here the man was, looking it dead in the eye without flinching and asking how he could help him through it. That was the moment when Vincent realized with certainty and awe that for the first time in his life, someone was looking at him and actually_ seeing _him, seeing_ all _of him, and not running away. More than that, he was_ _pulling him_ closer _instead_. _Vincent didn’t know how to respond to that. He smoked the rest of his cigarette in silence, staring out into the green-tinted darkness of Midgar._

_“Find a focal point,” he echoed after a while. “I’ll…try it.” Another long silence before he spoke. “Veld, I… thank you.”_

_“Hmm?” Veld hummed over the rim of his whiskey glass._

_“For helping me with this,” Vincent clarified. “For trusting me… For not being afraid.”_

_Veld smiled at that, rolling his shoulders in a little shrug._

_“Storms are natural. They’re a part of life. Part of being partners is weathering those storms together, and being prepared for them when they come.”_

**Find a focal point.**

_Vincent knocked softly at the door of Veld’s apartment, knowing the man was expecting him. He’d promised to come by as soon as he was released from medical. It had taken longer than he’d thought it would to patch him up from the fight. It had been a bad one, this time. They’d been patrolling the reactor in Sector Three when they’d been ambushed by a terrorist cell. One of the men had grabbed and disarmed Veld immediately, and Vincent had caught the blow of the machete meant to cave in his head with his forearm. Veld didn’t think he’d ever seen someone lose so much blood and live, but Vincent had fought through it, taking out the entire rebel unit alone, bloodlust raging in his eyes._

_As Veld had watched him kill, he could see the shadow of the berserker lurking there, lending a feral light to his eyes, a sharpness to the grin he wore as he killed, but it was Vincent’s focus and clarity behind the rage, not the madness Veld had seen his partner lose himself to before. It was the first time he’d witnessed Vincent successfully leash his demon, and it had been… beautiful. Almost beautiful enough to make him forget the panic and pain of almost losing him, but those feelings came back as he opened the door to his apartment and found Vincent standing there, still wearing the bracelet from medical on his arm._

_Veld was on him the moment Vincent closed the door, slamming him back against it with force, gripping him by the injured forearm firmly enough to send a twinge of pain through the still-sore appendage. Even a good Heal Materia hadn’t managed to set it completely right, and it would hurt for a while yet._

_“Don’t you_ ever _pull that shit again,” Veld growled, his voice a low rumble in Vincent’s ear._

_“That’s an interesting way of thanking me for saving your life,” Vincent said lightly._

_“You almost bled out, you asshole! You could have gone for your gun! You could have gone after the guy holding me, and we could have fought them off together. But no! You were fucking hurt, and you decided just to take them all on alone!”_

_“I decided?” Vincent echoed. He’d thought Veld would assume he’d had another blackout, honestly. Veld gave him a knowing little smile, most of his rage dying as quickly as it had come, because yeah, Vincent had_ decided _, had kept control of himself, and that was a big deal._

_“I guess finding a focal point worked, eh?” he observed, the anger fading from his voice. “What was it?”_

_For a moment, Vincent just studied him, eyes trailing over the planes of Veld’s face, the sharp line of his jaw, brushed with stubble the way it always was late in the afternoon, just long enough to tickle, the soft hollows of his cheeks, deep brown eyes framed in thick, short lashes._

_“You,” he whispered at last, and Veld swept him into a kiss…_

“Veld,” Vincent said hoarsely, wrenching his control back from Galian and sinking back into his own body. He found himself in his partner’s arms, Veld supporting him through the transformation. He regained his feet shakily and stepped away, shoving Veld as he did. The older Turk stumbled back as Sephiroth grappled Vincent and forced him back against the wall.

It was the first time Sephiroth had let Vincent in so close, and he took advantage of the error, grabbing the boy before he could disengage, stepping closer to him despite the pain that shot through his body at yet another impact with the wall, this time compounded with the ache of his shapeshifting.

Sephiroth was skilled, but it was clear he was more accustomed to swordplay and fighting monsters than hand-to-hand combat with another person, and Vincent had both reach and experience on the kid, used both to his advantage to throw Sephiroth off center and pin him against the wall, metal gauntlet so firm on the boy’s wrist that his claws punctured the steel behind him. Sephiroth struggled against him with all his considerable strength, but Vincent held tight, held like his world depended on it, because it did.

“Sephiroth,” he said lowly, trying to catch the boy’s gaze through the cloud of his mako-high. “Sephiroth.” The boy growled at him, thrashing in his grasp, and suddenly Vincent’s thoughts flashed back to his own father, holding him close through the rage, Grimoire the only thing left anchoring him to the world.

He pulled Sephiroth against him, holding him close, and did the only thing he could think of; he began humming their requiem, the one they’d played together the day before. Slowly, gradually, he felt the fight leave the boy, until finally he just went limp in Vincent’s arms, letting the man support him. At last, he stirred a little, glanced up.

“Vincent?” he whispered at last, and when Vincent glanced down to meet the child’s eyes, his pupils were rounded again, and his gaze was finally clear.

“Hey,” Vincent murmured. He didn’t know what else to say. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. Fuck. The child knew Hojo had experimented on him, but there’s no way he’d been prepared for Vincent to _turn into a monster and nearly kill him._ Vincent had always known that he would have to tell the child about his demons eventually, but he hadn’t wanted him to find out this way—hadn’t wanted _Veld_ to find out this way. Would either of them dare come with him now? Now that they’d seen the truth of what he was? A step away from happiness, and he felt as if he were losing it all again. Was this just what fate had damned him to?

He wasn’t surprised when Sephiroth recoiled away from him, but he _was_ surprised by the boy’s tears, running in streaks through the bloodstains on his face. He was trembling.

“You should go,” Sephiroth said through the lump in his throat, and despite the depth of his voice, he sounded younger than his thirteen years. “You should leave me here and go. You still have time to get out.”

 ** _“Leave you here?”_ **Vincent echoed in disbelief, and he flinched as Galian’s rumble accompanied the question.

“I’m dangerous,” Sephiroth choked. “I….I’m a monster.”

“What the _fuck_ do you think I am?” Vincent hissed, well aware that his eyes were glinting golden. He closed them for a moment, taking a few deep breaths. “I haven’t learned anything new here today,” he said gently after a moment. He gave a breathy laugh. “I was worried _you’d_ be afraid of _me_ , change your mind about coming with us.”

“I could hurt someone,” Sephiroth whispered. “There’s something… _dark_ in me. Something I can’t control.”

“I know. I told you, Seph,” he murmured. “I understand that darkness in you.”

“How?” voice a sepulture. Vincent winced. So this was it, the moment he was forced to confess his sins, meet his child’s judgement.

“Because Hojo didn’t put it there,” Vincent admitted. “ _I_ did. There’s…. a reason I never meant to have children. It’s… my fault.”

Sephiroth closed his eyes, a little tremor racing along the length of his frame.

“You said you can help me,” he whispered at last.

“I did,” Vincent confirmed.

“Then you owe me that.”

“I do.” _So much more than that,_ Vincent knew. _A debt I can never repay_. Vincent took a deep breath, closed his eyes. “We need to go.”

He turned his attention away from Sephiroth then, surveying their surroundings. Veld was leaning against the nearest wall, clutching his wounded shoulder and eying them both warily. Hojo, he realized with a sinking feeling, was gone. The scientist had collapsed near the door. It was entirely possible he’d made it through and bled out on the other side. Vincent couldn’t make himself believe it if he tried. He could hear an alarm sounding in the distance. Veld made his way to his feet unsteadily as Vincent approached, taking a few steps towards him.

“Shit’s about to get bad, isn’t it?” Veld asked as Vincent wrapped an arm around his shoulders, supporting some of his weight. “I don’t know what you know that I don’t, but I know that look on your face.”

“We’re getting out of here,” Vincent replied firmly. One way or another. He ushered Veld and Sephiroth towards the hole he’d left in the arena wall, hoping that somehow no one on the outside of the Shinra building had been alerted of what had happened yet.

They all froze at the sound of a chopper overhead, and Vincent unholstered Cerberus as the helicopter began to descend into the arena. They would take this boon for what it was, he decided. This was their ticket out. Shoot the pilot, let Veld fly them out. He was ready to fire when a familiar man, pale and tall with pin-straight black hair, stepped out onto the landing skid.

“You son of a bitch!” Veld yelled beside him, breaking from Vincent’s grip to make his way towards Tseng. Usually, that sort of anger on Veld was enough to see anyone cowed, but the menace was tempered some by the limp in his stride, the bloodstains on his button-down. “I told you to stay out of this!”

“You aren’t the boss anymore, remember?” Tseng called over the roar of the chopper blades. “I am! Now shut up and get in!”

Veld was still muttering obscenities under his breath as Tseng helped him into the helicopter, and Vincent moved to follow them, only making it a few steps before realizing that Sephiroth was frozen where he’d left him, eying the helicopter and the Turks it contained with wary eyes. He turned back to the boy, getting close enough to talk without yelling over the noise of the bird.

“They’re friends, okay?” he assured Sephiroth gently. “They’re going to get us out of here.”

“They’re Shinra,” Sephiroth protested, suspicion sharp in his voice.

“They’re Turks,” Vincent corrected. “Shinra might hold their leash most days, but they’re family first. We can trust them. Someone tripped the alarm. We’re going to be swarmed in Security Officers soon. This is our chance, and it might be the only one we get. I won’t leave without you, but please. Trust me.”

“…Okay,” Sephiroth said after a long pause, and his body was tense beside Vincent as they approached the helicopter together, but he moved forward nonetheless. He shook off Tseng when the Turk tried to help him up into the chopper, retreating as deeply into the cabin as he could and curling up around himself.

Vincent took Tseng’s offered hand and settled in next to Veld as the pilot, a woman he didn’t recognize with short-cropped blond hair, lifted off. Tseng crouched down in front of his former partner to get a better look at his injuries, doing his best to heal him with the Materia they had on hand.

“Should I even ask how you knew to be here?” Veld asked as Tseng wiped the blood away from the gunshot wound on his shoulder to get a better look at it.

“I bugged you,” Tseng admitted. Veld cursed.

“I told you to stay out of this shit!” he snapped again. “You were going to be under enough scrutiny just for being my partner, and now you’re actively aiding and abetting escaping fugitives!”

“You don’t understand, Veld,” Tseng said, shaking his head. “I have Hojo _on tape._ Conspiring to kill a Director. Trying to push a child towards murder just to get him back in his hands against the will of the Board. Hojo’s fucking finished!”

“Hojo’s dead,” Veld interrupted. There was stunned silence in the chopper for a minute. “I shot the fucker myself.” He turned his eyes towards Vincent then. “Once in the heart, twice in the lungs. I didn’t miss. There’s no way he lived.”

“…I wouldn’t count on that, Verdot,” Vincent muttered after a while.

“Living or dead, the Board is going to rake him across the coals. He’ll lose the Science Department. He’ll be lucky not to spend the rest of his life in a cell. I’m getting both of you away to a safe location while things settle down here in Midgar, officially, but when Hojo is out of the way…you can come back if you want.”

Vincent sensed Sephiroth stiffen behind him.

“That’s not gonna happen, Tseng,” Veld said immediately, his tone apologetic. Tseng nodded, as if he’d expected that, and Sephiroth relaxed, just a little. “But I’m glad you can spin this in a way that saves your ass, and if you Hojo's still alive and you take him down…well, that’s a bonus.”

As Tseng and Veld spoke, Vincent inched back into the corner where Sephiroth had settled. He didn’t say anything, but he let their shoulders brush, just a little. For a long while, they listened to the noise of the engine and the sound of Tseng and Veld squabbling about something further up in the cabin.

“Do you want me to take a look at your shoulder?” Vincent asked at last, quietly enough that no one else could hear. The boy just shook his head though, a curtain of silken silver hair falling across his dirty face.

“It will heal on its own,” Sephiroth whispered back, and Vincent nodded, understanding. Silence again for a long while. “Hojo’s not dead.”

“No.”

“We won’t be safe until he is.”

“One step at a time. We worry about us first—finding a safe place to settle down, making a home.”

“I’ve… never had a home before,” Sephiroth observed. “Not really. Just the boarding school. What’s it like?”

_Bright morning sunlight filtering in through the enormous windows in Veld’s loft. Bathing in sunbeams like a cat as he curled up against Veld on the sofa, cup of tea in hand. Veld bitching about everything smelling like patchouli even though Vincent knew for a fact he burned his incense when he wasn’t there. Cooking together late at night. Lounging and laughing and drinking, comfortable. Safe._

“It’s _warm_ ,” Vincent replied after a while. “Even on cold days, because when it’s bitter outside there’s a fire and soft blankets, and even if the fire goes out, there’s love. And it’s _safe_ , even when the world’s falling apart, because it’s the one place in the universe it’s always all right to be yourself. There’s no judgement at home, and no danger. Everyone cares for each other. Everyone looks out for each other.”

“It sounds…nice,” Sephiroth said in a small voice, that one that made him sound younger than he was. Without thinking, Vincent reached up and brushed the boy’s hair back from his face, and just like the first time, the boy startled, then leaned into the touch. At some point while they were talking, the wing had gone away, Vincent noticed.

“Yeah,” Vincent agreed after a beat, catching Veld’s eye as he realized the older man had been eavesdropping on every word. Veld smiled at him, an earnest, bright thing that chased away the lingering apprehension from the fight, from everything that had happened that day, replaced it with a blooming warmth, and for a brief moment, he could almost taste it…

 _Playing piano in the living room. It would a secondhand one, probably, a bit battered, not as nice as the one in the music room, but it would be situated near a few bookshelves, beside a merry fire flickering in the hearth instead of in a sterile schoolroom, and that would more than make up for the difference. Veld would be settled on the sofa nearby, drinking whiskey neat while he pretended not to be enraptured by the music, giving himself away because he hadn’t turned the page of his book in ages. And one day—maybe when he and Sephiroth could share drinks, because he wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready for the conversation sober—he’d tell him about Lucrecia. About her drive, and her brilliance, and her beauty. About her idealism. About how, if she’d lived, she probably would have changed the world. Because Sephiroth needed to know_ that _was inside him too, not just Vincent’s darkness._

“Vince?” Veld’s voice woke him from his daydream. “We’re here.”

Together, they stepped out of the chopper and looked out towards the nearby streets of Kalm. Despite the utter disaster of the day, they’d arrived a few hours early, thanks to their personal airlift from the Turks. Sephiroth lingered close to Vincent as Veld made arrangements for Tseng to send their things and the two men embraced for a final time, the same wary look in his eyes he’d worn in the helicopter.

Vincent knew he was right, about home being something they’d have to make. It was going to take time and effort to gain the boy’s trust, to make him comfortable enough to relax. He was missing a lot of the basic foundations of what it meant to be human, and even though he _wasn’t_ —not entirely—Vincent knew all too well how important it was to hold tight to the pieces that were.

 _But what does it mean to be human?_ he wondered.

_The echo of his mother’s laughter, her fingers guiding his on the keys. The sweetness of her perfume, the softness of her lips on his brow. Crying at her funeral, the scent of roses that lingered in the old manor for days after she was gone. Grimoire’s warm but distant love, half-off in his own world even when he was present, the way Vincent used to be himself. It had taken becoming a Turk, living life on the edge of a knife, for him to learn to live in the moment. The letters his father had sent him after Shinra had taken him, read and treasured but never replied to. The deep ache of that regret. His first kiss, his first fuck, the first time he’d felt wanted since before the madness came, chasing love in the wrong places long enough he’d decided it had never existed until Veld waltzed into his life and proved him wrong. The beautiful whirlwind of falling in love for the first time, the terrifying feeling of living for someone else as well as yourself._

These were the things Vincent held to when the darkness pressed in, when his demons tried to take him. These were the things he held to those thirteen years he spent in a coffin. These were the things that kept him human, in all their mess and joy and pain.

How did he give those things to someone else? He couldn’t. The best he could hope to do was give Sephiroth freedom to live and pray the boy would take it, that he would find enough light in humanity to embrace it. Sephiroth had come with Vincent because he recognized the monster in him, the monster that they shared, but he hoped he could help him learn to celebrate the man inside them both as well.

“This is it,” Vincent observed and Veld turned his back on Tseng and made his way over to join them, barely even limping now. “Are you ready?” he asked.

Sephiroth gave a resolute nod, and they stepped forward into their new life together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to (actually) be a wrap, folks! Thanks so much to everyone who read, left kudos, and commented. This story has helped me work through a rough couple of months, and I hope it brought you all a little bit of joy. I normally don't do happy endings, but I felt like we all deserved it.
> 
> Update: Next part of this series is in progress :)


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